I walked down the stairs still yawning, the smell of soup pulling at my stomach. The wooden floor creaked under my feet as I stretched, my hair messy. And there she was — Evelyn, wearing her mother's oversized apron. It hung too loosely on her, the fabric folded awkwardly, like she was playing dress-up. She looked like a living painting — simple and soft.
"I need firewood" she said without looking directly at me. Her voice was firm but gentle, carrying that rural accent of hers. "We've got enough meat, but if I don't get wood for the stove… we won't have lunch. Then let's see you try convincing me to eat cold soup"
She spoke in that stubborn way she always did, but with a calmness—something comforting. There was something different about her. A sparkle in her eyes, a different rhythm in her skin. I stepped closer and touched her face, then her waist. I wanted to feel her vitality, to confirm that strange sensation pulsing inside me.
"Hm?" She turned her head curiously.
"You look better" I murmured, resting my forehead against hers. "You seem more… alive today"
She smiled, blushing slightly.
"Maybe it's because I'm hungry" she said, slipping out of my touch with a small laugh. "Now go on, sit down. It's almost ready"
We sat at the rustic wooden table. She began serving the soup into clay bowls, and the sounds of the kitchen—the clink of the spoon against the rim, the crackle of burning wood, the bubbling of the broth—created a peaceful, familiar atmosphere.
"I had a friend when I was younger" she suddenly said, still stirring the soup. "We got along really well. That is, until she got married"
"And...?" I asked, accepting my bowl from her hands. She hesitated, biting her lower lip.
"She married the tavern owner's son. At first, everything seemed fine... but when his father died and he inherited the tavern, everything fell apart. He started drinking. Stopped working and... forced her to sell her body to support the house" Her voice wavered. "When she didn't bring enough money, he hit her"
My expression darkened instantly. What kind of trash demands something like that from his own wife? How can someone be so cruel?
"And then what happened?" I pressed.
She looked away, her smile fading slightly.
"When I found out, I went to ask her why she allowed it..." Her voice broke, filled with sadness. "She just looked at me and said: 'You'll never understand. You don't know what it means to be a housewife'"
For a moment, she looked like a wilting flower, replaying those words with pain.
"After that, she started badmouthing me to everyone" Evelyn said as she stirred the pot over the wood-burning stove. The orange glow of the fire highlighted her features, and though her voice sounded steady, I noticed her hands trembling slightly as she held the ladle. "She called me a monster, said I'd die alone because I was broken, imperfect... I think it was the only way she could take out her own anger on me"
She finished serving the meat, and I just stared at my plate.
"Today, I'm going to prove her wrong" she said with a fragile smile. And there was something in that look that made me pause before I started eating.
I looked at the food in front of me, picked up my utensils, and began to eat. It was a beef soup with mushrooms and vegetables, rich and spicy—maybe the most delicious meal I'd ever tasted. I couldn't stop eating; the food warmed me in a way I hadn't felt in a long time.
I kept eating without saying a word, but she seemed to notice.
"Is it good?" she asked shyly, as if the answer meant more than she wanted to admit.
"It's... incredible" I admitted. "Warm, strong… comforting. You've outdone yourself"
She lowered her gaze but smiled faintly. We ate in silence for a while longer. Only after a few minutes did she speak again, this time with a softer tone:
"You know... the vice-director's story. The one about the woman he loved... I sometimes think about her" she said, her voice low and almost respectful. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of her mug, as if the motion helped calm something inside her.
"He never told me anything about that" I replied, surprised. It was hard to imagine that rigid man opening up to anyone.
She shifted in her chair, resting her hands around the bowl.
"According to what he told the girls during history class..." She paused, her gaze drifting somewhere into the past. "She was someone he loved deeply. But she chose to marry a baron from the countryside. He never stopped her. Never harmed her loved ones, even though he had the power to. He just... accepted it. Watched from afar as she built another life"
I stayed silent, absorbing every word. It was more than a story—it was a portrait of regret.
"I guess why she made that choice" I murmured, already suspecting his pride must have ruled him for far too long.
"He believes it was because he never had the courage to confess his feelings in time" she said, a sad smile forming on her lips. "When he was young, he rejected her. When he realized he wanted her, she already had a family. He... he said he visited her grave many years later, searching for something called the 'True Soul Flower' But he never found it"
She looked at me, and there was something in her eyes—not pity, but genuine empathy.
"He accepted that she never loved him" she added softly.
"The True Soul Flower?" I repeated, frowning. "What is that?"
"No one knows. The girls tried to guess. Some think it's a metaphor for mutual affection. Others believe it's a magical relic. But he never explained. Just said that… he never received the call. And because of that, he accepted that she never loved him"
I stayed quiet for a while. The image of the vice-director—serious, reserved, always distant—crying in front of his students was nearly impossible to imagine. But Evelyn spoke with sincerity. I could feel the weight of her words.
"He seemed so... unshakable" I murmured. "But this changes things. Shows that even the strongest carry scars"
She slowly nodded.
"Sometimes I wonder... if love comes too late. Or if, when we wait too long, we just lose our chance"
I looked at her. Her eyes were fixed on the nearly empty bowl. Her face lightly flushed from the fireplace's glow. And even in that simple nightgown, in that makeshift home, she seemed stronger than most people I had ever known.
"I don't know how to answer that yet" I said honestly. "But if love comes—late or not—I won't let it slip away"
She lifted her eyes to mine. And even though she didn't say a word, that look was more than enough.
After we finished eating, she started gathering the travel clothes to wash, organizing them calmly. I grabbed the axe leaning by the door and put on my coat. We needed firewood.
Luckily, I had brought enough supplies.