He walks without looking back,
though his spine is a string pulled taut.
There is only the echo of her footsteps,
soft as ash falling on snow.
Orpheus has all the silence he can bear
inside him.

The Underworld watches them
as one watches a dying star,
it holds its breath.
He longs to turn around
and pull her into the light,
but someone decided that
singers are only meant to
break their own hearts.

The path narrows like a throat
and swallows the dark.
A river of shadows rushes
like black silk past his ankles
as he whispers into the gloom:

"Wait."

He feels the cold weight of her absence
and wishes he could fill it with his songs,
but he is a mortal, he can only turn
around and lose her.

Walked down to the Great Falls this morning.
Same as always.
Same path.
Same sound before you see it.
That particular roar that starts in your chest before your ears catch up.
Beautiful.
Always beautiful.
Stood at the edge a while.
Watching the water.
Then noticed the water was watching back.
Not the whole falls.
Just one current.
Specific. Steady.
Tracking.
I moved left.
It moved left.
I stepped back.
It waited.
I’ve lived here long enough to know the Falls has moods.
High water after rain.
Low and green in August.
This was neither.
This was intent.
I stood very still.
The way you do when something large has noticed you.
And you haven’t decided yet what to do about it.
It kept watching.
Patient in the way that only very old things are patient.
The kind of patient that has outlasted everything it’s ever wanted.
I said good morning.
Out loud.
Felt foolish immediately.
The current shifted.
Slightly.
The way someone shifts when they’ve been acknowledged.
I walked home.
Made coffee.
Sat on the porch.
Told nobody.
The Falls is still there.
I can hear it from the house.
I’ve always been able to hear it from the house.
Today it sounds different, though.
Closer.
Like it’s learned my name.
And is just deciding when to use it.
I’m leaving the porch light on tonight.
I don’t know why.
It just seems like the right thing to do.

The candlelight gently moves across the room, outlining the walls. Five years of photographs, each frame a small testament to the time they have shared. As James holds Joann’s hand, their fingers intertwined, a quiet dependency born from many dinners at this same table. The scent of jasmine from the bouquet rises, blending with the rich aroma of the meal, creating an atmosphere filled with love and romance.

“I find it easy to lose track of how the years have added up,” Joann whispers, her eyes reflecting the steady light. “Each day feels like a beginning, even now.”

James smiles, feeling the fullness of a life that has grown through forty-two years of laughter and the quiet strength needed for challenges. He sees her as the greatest gift, an accumulation of every grace they have shared over four decades.

They talk about the moments that have shaped their world. The late-night conversations that built their trust. The travels that broadened their horizons, and the quiet mornings where simply being near each other was enough. Outside, the city lights twinkle with distant energy, but inside this room, time slows as it deepens with their history.