The scent of rain always made Elara feel as though something beautiful was about to happen. It was the promise of change, the hush before the storm, the way the air held its breath. That morning, the sky was a soft canvas of grays and blues, and the breeze that rustled through the cherry trees carried with it the whisper of something new.
She sat on the worn bench beside the university's sculpture garden, a book resting in her lap but unread. Her fingers idly traced the raised lines of text, her thoughts drifting too far away to make sense of the words. The morning light filtered through the leaves in golden slivers, dancing across her face like a lover's touch. And then she heard it—the soft, careful footsteps on gravel.
She didn't look up at first. The garden was a public space. Students passed through all the time. But something about those footsteps was different. They hesitated. Paused. Then came closer.
"Is this seat taken?" a voice asked.
It was warm and deep, a little unsure, with the hint of a smile hiding behind the syllables.
Elara looked up, startled out of her daydream. Her gaze met a pair of storm-gray eyes, curious and patient, set into a face that looked like it had seen more sunrises than sleepless nights. His hair was dark, tousled like he'd run his fingers through it a hundred times that morning, and his hands—she would remember those—were calloused, strong, the kind of hands that could build or destroy.
"It's free," she said, shifting her bag to make room.
He sat, his movements easy. "You always sit here this early?"
"Not always." She gave a half-shrug. "Sometimes. Depends on the light."
There was a pause. Then he said, "You like the light?"
Elara nodded. "It changes everything. The way the world looks, how people see things. Light tells stories, I think."
"I like that," he said softly. "I'm Liam, by the way."
"Elara."
"Elara," he repeated, as if tasting the name. "That's beautiful."
She smiled despite herself. "Is that your go-to line?"
"No," he laughed. "I usually go with something awkward and unmemorable. But you made me want to try."
The conversation should have ended there. Strangers in a garden, names exchanged, smiles passed like coins between hands. But it didn't. They sat for an hour, then two. Talking about books they hadn't finished, dreams they were afraid to speak aloud, and the quiet fear of being alone. He told her about his passion for photography and how he chased light through cityscapes and empty fields. She told him about her love of music, the way it painted her world even on the days her eyes betrayed her.
She didn't tell him about the diagnosis. Not then.
---
The weeks that followed were slow and sweet. Coffee dates turned into picnics beneath fading sunsets. Walks through rainy streets became late-night phone calls, laughter echoing in both their ears. Liam had a way of looking at her as if she were the answer to a question he hadn't realized he'd been asking his whole life.
He wasn't perfect. He was messy in ways that annoyed her—always leaving socks where socks shouldn't be, constantly tinkering with old cameras that littered his small apartment. But he listened. Really listened. When she spoke about her fears—the darkness that sometimes crept in, the blurriness that sometimes replaced the world—he didn't flinch.
One night, as they lay side by side on his couch, her head resting on his chest and a black-and-white film playing in the background, Elara whispered, "I'm losing my sight."
He didn't answer immediately. His fingers paused in her hair. The silence stretched just long enough for her to consider pulling the words back, swallowing them like pills.
"How much?" he asked at last.
"They say a few more years. Maybe less. My peripheral is already fading. Some colors are gone. It's like looking through fog some days."
Liam turned to her then, his eyes searching hers even though she didn't meet them.
"Elara, I didn't fall in love with your eyes."
Her breath caught. "You love me?"
He smiled, his voice steady. "Yeah. I do."
And just like that, the world tilted. Everything felt brighter, heavier, more alive.
---
Months passed. Seasons changed. The cherry trees blossomed and withered, and Elara learned to hold Liam's hand not because she needed help seeing but because it grounded her.
He proposed in autumn, beneath those same trees where they first met. A simple silver band, no crowd, no grand gestures. Just them, and the light that filtered through golden leaves, and his voice saying, "Whatever the world looks like to you tomorrow, I'll still be here. We'll face it together."
She said yes with tears in her eyes.
They started planning the wedding—a quiet affair in the spring, with music and candles and a garden full of memories. Elara's vision continued to dim, but Liam adapted. He learned Braille with her, read her poetry aloud in bed, described sunsets like he was painting them with words.
On a cold February morning, with snow dusting the ground like powdered sugar, Liam kissed her goodbye at the train station.
He had a photo shoot in the next town over—one of his last gigs before they were to move into their new apartment. He promised to be back before dinner. Promised they'd cook something terrible and laugh about it over wine. Promised he'd bring her something sweet.
Elara waited all afternoon.
By evening, the phone rang.
And nothing was ever the same.
---
The accident was fast. The report said the other driver was speeding. Liam's car was hit on the driver's side. No time to swerve. No time to brace. He died on impact.
Elara didn't scream. Not at first.
She dropped the phone. The world went silent. She curled onto the floor of their half-packed apartment and let the darkness take her—not the blindness she'd feared, but something deeper. Something crueler.
Grief settled over her like a storm cloud, suffocating and endless. Her eyes, already failing, ceased to matter. What good were they when the only thing she wanted to see was gone?
---
In the days that followed, people came and went like ghosts. Friends brought food she couldn't taste. Strangers offered sympathy she couldn't feel. Her parents hovered, unsure how to help a daughter who wouldn't speak.
The funeral was a blur. She remembers the cold. The scent of lilies. The way someone placed her hand on the casket and whispered, "Say goodbye, Elara."
But she didn't.
She couldn't.
Because how do you say goodbye to your whole world?
---
Weeks passed. Her sight continued to fade until one morning, all that was left was darkness. Complete, suffocating, bitter.
The doctors said it was inevitable. Retinal deterioration. The trauma may have sped things up.
She stopped answering her phone. Stopped playing music. Stopped eating, most days.
Her life became a routine of nothingness—wake up, remember he's gone, stumble through the day, sleep, repeat. The light that once meant so much to her was gone.
And with it, all reason to keep going.
Until one afternoon, as she sat alone in their garden, fingers numb from cold and heart aching from silence, she heard a familiar sound.
Footsteps on gravel.
She turned her head instinctively, though she could see nothing. Her heart stuttered.
And then a voice—a voice that wasn't his, but still soft, still uncertain—said:
"Is this seat taken?"