“Be safe,” she murmured.
“Always am,” he replied, the hint of a smile ghosting his lips as he leaned down. His kiss was brief, a fleeting press of warmth that filled her with hope. Then he straightened up, the mask of the stoic farmer slipping back into place.
“See you at supper,” he said, turning away, the finality in his tone wrapping around Poppy like a shroud.
She watched him walk away, the door closing behind him with a soft click that resounded through the space. Poppy stood motionless, her hand lifting to touch her lips, the ghost of his kiss lingering like a promise—or perhaps a goodbye.
*****
Days passed, each one bleeding into the next. The initial spark that had ignited within Poppy’s chest began to dim, suffocated by the return of silence and distance. She tried to hold onto the thoughts of their renewed connection, but with no signs it would continue, it dimmed to a distant memory.
Jacob’s presence returned to the way it had been before she left, always there and yet unreachable. His conversations were curt, his smiles rare and fleeting. At night, he lay beside her, his breaths steady and even while hers caught in her throat, feeling choked with unshed tears. She would lie awake, listening to the howl of a distant coyote, the rustling of leaves in the wind—and wonder where the man she had married had gone. The vibrant laughter and shared dreams had been replaced by silence.
In her moments of solitude, Poppy gazed out at the sprawling expanse of their homestead. It was a harsh reminder of the reality they faced.
As she stood alone, her hands resting atop the swell of her belly, Poppy realized that survival was a fight to keep the embers of love alive amidst the ashes of grief and responsibility. Whatever it took, she would find a way to get back what they’d lost.
The door creaked behind her as she turned and stepped back into the dimness of the cabin. Poppy was not about to give in to despair. She’d be damned if she let that fire die out without a fight.
Her gaze landed on the small bookshelf that housed the few treasures she had brought from her old life—a well-wornBible from Sarah, a collection of Shakespearean plays, and a few beloved novels. Literature—the solace of her solitude.
“Words,” she whispered to herself, a notion taking root. “Words have power.”
The following day, after Jacob left for the fields, Poppy sat at the table, ink and paper before her. With a resolute breath, she began to pen a letter, her handwriting looping gracefully across the page. She wrote of memories, of moments they had shared in laughter and tender whispers. She spoke of her dreams for their child, the future they might build together if only they could bridge the chasm that had opened up between them.
When the letter was done, she folded it carefully and left it atop his pillow. Each day, a new letter waited for him.
Evenings came, and with them, Jacob’s return. His dark eyes would flicker with a fleeting spark of curiosity as he found her missives, though he said nothing. But Poppy noticed the subtle shifts—a longer linger in his gaze, a softening around the edges of his stoic demeanor.
She felt it during their silent suppers. And so, she persisted, weaving her love and resolve into every sentence, every plea penned by candlelight.
She invited him to join her on walks, their boots crunching through the new fallen snow.
“Look, Jacob,” she’d say softly, her hand resting on his arm as she gestured toward the horizon. “There’s so much we haven’t seen yet.”
And sometimes, just sometimes, she caught the flicker of something in his eyes, a glimmer of the man who had once looked at her as though she were the most wondrous discovery.
Slowly, Poppy chipped away at the walls Jacob had built around himself. She had no illusions—it would take time, effort, perhaps even heartache. But she would slowly rekindle what they had lost.
