A Year Later
It had been a full year since Marc returned from Europe. A year filled with quiet routines, soft mornings, and long afternoons spent in the garden.
Marc and Ira had slipped into a rhythm, not quite lovers, not quite strangers, but something deeper: kindred spirits who had found home in one another's silence.
Marc often caught her watching the leaves fall, as if counting the days through their descent.
"Why do you always look up at the tree?" he asked once, sitting beside her as the wind whispered through branches.
"I like knowing what's about to let go," she replied with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
He didn't ask further.
He never noticed how pale she had grown, or how she sometimes clutched her side when she thought he wasn't looking. He told himself her quietness was just thoughtfulness, her tiredness only the warmth of the afternoon.
She never gave him reason to think otherwise.
She never told him.
An offer came, another one. This time, it was Japan. A two-month cultural exchange for established artists.
Marc hesitated. The garden had become his peace again, and Ira, his constant. He didn't want to leave her.
But she urged him.
"It's just two months," she said, brushing a hand on his shoulder. "You've been still for too long."
He searched her face for resistance, for sadness. But she only smiled, that soft Ira smile that made you believe the world was okay.
So he went.
The days passed slower than expected. Ira stopped going to the garden after the first month. She stayed indoors more, missing her classes at The Leaf Studio.
Her illness was progressing fast, much faster than the doctors predicted.
Her bones ached. Her lungs struggled. But she still wrote. Still thought of Marc.
She didn't want him to return to her with regret in his eyes. She didn't want to become his reason for stopping again.
So when the doctor told her there wasn't much time left, she asked a favor from a friend:
"Give this letter to Marc… when the leaves start falling."
She passed away on a quiet Thursday afternoon, alone in her room, the sketch she had been working on still on her desk: a tree, half-done, wind tracing its edges.
Marc returned in early October, his heart light with stories to tell. He brought her paper from Kyoto, ink from an old temple market, and a sketch of a golden maple tree she would've loved.
But when he stepped into the garden, something was wrong.
The air didn't hum like it used to.
Children weren't laughing from the studio.
The doors were shut.
The garden… felt abandoned.
He rushed to the house, confusion twisting in his chest.
It was Mrs. Lourdes, the librarian, who opened her door with a quiet sigh. She didn't need to say anything. The look in her eyes said enough.
"Ira's gone, Marc."
He couldn't breathe.
"no…. No!, I was only gone for two months, she was okay, she said she was okay—"
"She was sick, Marc. She hid it well. She didn't want anyone to see her fading."
He collapsed onto the steps, chest heaving.
"She didn't tell me."
"She didn't want to hold you back."
From her apron pocket, Mrs. Lourdes pulled out a worn envelope, its edges soft from being held too long. In Ira's delicate script, it read:
For Marc, when the leaves start falling.
He waited until he was under their tree before opening it.
The sky was gold, like the one from the day they watched the leaf fall.
His hands trembled as he unfolded the paper.
____
Marc,
I'm sorry I couldn't be the one to tell you this in person. I've rewritten this letter many times, some versions long and poetic, others short and broken. But in the end, I realized simple is better. You always saw through my fancy words anyway.
I've been sick for a long time. Longer than you know. I found out before we met. I guess… I always knew I wouldn't have forever. Maybe that's why I treasured everything more, every leaf, every season, every silence we shared.
When you left for Europe, I didn't think I'd live long enough to see you return. But I did. And I'm so, so glad I did. You brought back a light I didn't know I still needed.
I didn't tell you because I didn't want to become someone you pitied, someone you tried to protect instead of just… loving.
You always said I was strong. But the truth is, I wasn't, Marc. I was scared, every single day. But you made me feel strong. That's what your presence did for me. You made the dying days feel like living ones.
There's something I want you to remember, especially when you start to miss me:
"Some people are meant to bloom quietly, not to last, but to leave something beautiful behind. I was never meant to stay, Marc… only to be loved, and remembered in the spaces where the wind touches the leaves."
That's where I'll be. Always.
Thank you for loving the leaf, even when it was falling.
Keep drawing. Keep seeing. Carry the garden with you. And if you ever feel alone, sit beneath a tree, and close your eyes. I'll be there.
I love you. I always have.
—Ira
Marc stayed in the garden that night until the stars disappeared. He didn't sketch. He didn't cry. He simply sat, her letter pressed against his heart, her memory in the breeze.
In the weeks that followed, he reopened The Leaf Studio. He turned it into a small art school for children who felt like they didn't belong. He filled the walls with both of their drawings.
And in one corner, by the window where the sunlight spilled in gently, he framed the last letter.
At the bottom, he added a single line in his handwriting:
"To the girl who taught me how to see."
And every fall, when the leaves began to drift, Marc would sit beneath the old tree, close his eyes, and remember the girl who loved the leaf, even as it let go.
" The End "