The sun bled into the horizon, its dying embers painting the sky in hues of orange and crimson. The man sat outside their wooden cabin, his fingers absently tracing the grooves on the worn porch railing. Beyond him, the forest stretched endlessly, its towering trees swaying in a rhythm older than time itself. The only sound was the distant murmur of the river, threading its way through the wilderness like a silver serpent.
Ahensa stood at the tree line, her frail figure draped in a pale shawl that fluttered in the evening breeze. She was watching the forest again, her gaze distant, as if she were listening to something only she could hear.
"The trees," she murmured, tilting her head ever so slightly. "They're whispering tonight."
The man sighed. She had always spoken of the trees as if they were old friends, carrying voices only she could understand. But lately, there was something different in her wordsless wonder, more absence.
"It's getting dark, Ahensa," he called gently. "Come inside."
She turned slowly, her lips parted as if she had forgotten what she was about to say. Then, with a nod, she shuffled toward the cabin. He waited for her to cross the threshold before stepping inside, bolting the door behind them.
The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the wooden walls. He watched her from his chair, his eyes tracing the familiar lines of her face. She looked smaller now, more fragile, like a wisp of smoke that could vanish with a single breath.
When he reached for her hand, she hesitated. It was brief, barely noticeable but he felt it.
She does not remember me. Not always.
The thought struck him like a knife to the chest, but he pushed it away. He had learned to live with these moments, to endure them like passing storms. Some days, she was his Ahensa, smiling at him with the warmth of the woman he had loved for decades. Other days, she was a stranger in his home, looking at him with empty eyes.
That night, she whispered his name before sleep took her. He held onto the sound like a dying ember, afraid of the darkness that might come when it faded.
The Empty Bed
The morning sun crept in through the cracks in the wooden shutters, bathing the room in a soft golden glow. The man stirred, reaching out instinctively for her warmth.
But the bed beside him was empty.
His heart stilled.
"Ahensa?" he called, his voice hoarse.
Silence.
He threw the blankets aside, his bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor. The cabin was eerily quiet. The air was thick with something unspoken, something wrong.
The door was ajar.
Cold dread slithered into his veins. He stepped outside, his breath coming in uneven gasps. The wind had picked up, rustling the trees in a restless murmur. The river's song felt louder, more insistent.
She was nowhere in sight.
His pulse pounded as he took a step toward the forest. Then another. His voice broke through the morning stillness, calling her name again and again.
Only the trees answered, their whispers threading through the wind.