Chapter 5: My Soulmate
722 Words
Spring came gently.
The garden Francis built for Miriam bloomed in wild, messy colors lavender, blood roses, sun-drunk marigolds. It was never perfect, never trimmed, and Miriam loved it that way. Beauty, like healing, she learned, didn’t need to be neat.
They stood under the olive tree, its branches heavy with memory.
Francis took her hands in his still calloused from the greenhouse, warm and steady.
“Do you still have nightmares?” he asked softly.
“Not as many,” she replied. “But when I do, you’re always there.”
He smiled. “You saved yourself. I’m just lucky to walk beside you now.”
Miriam tilted her head, the wind catching strands of her hair like silk threads dancing between them. “You never tried to fix me.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” he said with a grin. “You’re not broken. You’re just real.”
She laughed something he still thought was the rarest music in the world.
He pulled a small box from his coat pocket. No grand gesture, no crowd, no speech. Just the two of them, in the garden that had grown from ruins.
Inside the box was a simple ring. A thin band with a tiny emerald the same green as her eyes when the light hit them just right.
“Miriam,” Francis said, voice low and full of truth. “I don’t need perfection. I don’t need it easy. I just need you. Will you marry me?”
She stared at the ring. At him. At the place her life had become.
Then, softly, with tears in her eyes but not from sorrow she said, “Yes.”
He slid the ring onto her finger. She kissed him, and the garden bloomed a little brighter.
For the first time in years, she wasn’t haunted by the past.
She was building a future with a man who spoke in silence, and loved everything else.
She was determined. She wasn't searching for a perfect man, but a lover.
The sun had returned after a long night of rain, turning the world silver with dew.
Miriam stood at the edge of the garden Francis built with his own hands a gift, he had once said, for both of them. A place to plant things that would grow. Roses bloomed beside wild herbs, tangled vines wrapped around trellises like lovers in sleep. Nothing about it was perfect. But that’s why she loved it.
She ran her fingers across the petals of a white lily, her eyes following the winding path of stones he’d laid himself. Each one uneven, each one solid. Like him.
She heard the soft crunch of gravel behind her.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Francis said.
He was still in his linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, the morning sun catching in the strands of silver near his temples. Miriam turned, and without hesitation, went to him.
“You always do,” she replied with a faint smile.
She leaned forward and kissed him. Not like the world was ending. But something beautiful had just begun.
Under a sky painted with stars, Francis tucked a strand of hair behind Miriam’s ear. “You always look like you’re made of moonlight,” he whispered. She laughed, the sound soft as the night breeze. “And you always say the most dangerous things.” He pulled her closer, their foreheads touching. “Loving you has never felt like danger. It feels like home.” Her hand found his fingers interlacing naturally. In that quiet moment, no promises were needed; their hearts already spoke in rhythm.
They’d married quietly. Just a handful of people. No press, no spectacle. Francis had worn his father’s watch. Miriam had worn a dress with pockets. She carried no bouquet. Only the faint scent of rosemary she’d rubbed between her palms for courage.
Their home was full of books, plants and music though Francis rarely spoke, he played piano when he thought she wasn’t listening. Miriam always was.
They were living a perfect quiet life, including their extended family members.
The past hadn’t vanished. The pain hadn’t been erased. But in Francis’s arms, in the garden they made from broken pieces, Miriam finally felt something she hadn’t in years.
Safe.
Loved.
Home.
And that was more than enough.
- Writer
