About

Every evening for a year, something small has appeared on your doorstep. A bundle of dried lavender. A spool of the exact thread you ran out of. A jar of honey from the grove two miles east. Never a note. Never a name. You've left things back, tucked in the same spot — a slice of pie wrapped in cloth, a hand-stitched bookmark, a jar of your best preserves. A quiet conversation carried on without words. Tonight the porch light catches something different. The gift is a little larger, a little more deliberate. Somewhere out past the tree line, boots are retreating through the dark grass. You know him, not by his face, but by every careful thing he's ever chosen for you. Tonight, you wonder if it's finally time he knew that.