Echoes of You

I love winter. I always have, ever since I was a little girl. Especially the first day of snow. It's the day I met him.

I was 8 the first time I saw him. That day still feels like a half-remembered dream, even now. I had run outside as soon as the first flakes began to fall, the excitement bubbling in my chest, my breath coming out in white clouds as I ran through the snow-covered streets. My parents had always told me not to wander too far, but that day, something called me farther than usual.

The valley of blossoms was hidden just beyond the edge of our village, a place forgotten by most, but somehow, I knew it was waiting for me. The snow crunched under my boots as I made my way through the trees, my cheeks flushed from the cold, my heart racing in my chest. And there, in the middle of that quiet, snow-covered valley, I saw him.

At first, I thought he was just a shadow—a trick of the light, the way the snow sometimes makes everything seem otherworldly. But as I stepped closer, I saw his face. He was standing so still, as if he were a statue, his dark hair dusted with snowflakes, his eyes fixed on something far away. He looked older than me, maybe 15 or 16, but there was something about him that felt timeless, like he didn't quite belong in the world I knew.

I stood there, staring at him, unsure whether I should speak or run back home. But before I could decide, he turned and looked at me. And just like that, the world shifted. It was as if, in that moment, everything else disappeared—the trees, the snow, the cold. There was only him.

He didn't say a word. Neither did I. We just stood there, two strangers in the middle of a snow-covered valley, with the silence of winter stretching between us. And yet, it didn't feel strange. It felt like I had always known him, as if I had been waiting for him all along.

That was the first day.

I didn't tell anyone about him, not even my parents. Somehow, I knew they wouldn't understand. Instead, I went back to the valley the next day, and the day after that. But he was never there again—until the first snow of the next winter.

When I was 9, I went to the valley as soon as the snow began to fall, hoping, praying that he would be there. And he was. Standing in the same place, just as still, just as silent. This time, I walked up to him, my breath catching in my throat. He didn't move, didn't speak, but his eyes—they watched me, as if waiting for something.

"Who are you?" I had asked, my voice small in the vast, white silence.

He didn't answer.

Instead, he smiled—a small, almost sad smile—and before I could say anything else, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the snow. I chased after him, but no matter how fast I ran, I couldn't catch up. He was gone.

The year I turned 10, I started asking him more questions.

"Where do you go when you leave?" I asked, my breath forming misty clouds in the freezing air.

He didn't answer, just like always, but he turned to look at me, his eyes soft, like he was listening. And that was enough for me. Somehow, his silence was comforting. Like he was telling me things I couldn't hear.

That winter was longer than the others. The snow stayed longer, and so did he. He appeared more often, always in the same valley. I would run there whenever I could, my heart racing, my mind filled with questions. Who was he? Why did he only come on the first snow? And why did it feel like I was the only one who could see him?

Every time I saw him, I felt a little older, a little more like I was growing into myself. I was changing, but he remained the same—always tall, with his dark hair and his quiet eyes, as still as the snow.

By the time I turned 12, the winters felt like they belonged to us. Every year, when the first snow fell, I knew where I had to be. It became a ritual—a secret, sacred ritual that only we shared. I would leave my house at dawn, before anyone else was awake, and run to the valley of blossoms, knowing he would be waiting.

But even though we saw each other every year, he remained a mystery. He spoke so little, and when he did, it was always in riddles.

"Why won't you stay longer?" I asked him once. I was 13 by then, and the sight of him made my chest ache in a way I couldn't explain. There was a sadness in his eyes, something distant and unreachable, but it only made me want to understand him more.

He tilted his head, snowflakes catching in his hair as he smiled that small, familiar smile. "I can't."

"Why?" I pressed, stepping closer. My heart pounded in my ears, the cold biting at my cheeks, but I didn't care. I needed to know.

He turned away, staring out at the endless stretch of snow. "Some places… I can't stay."

"What does that mean?"

He didn't answer. He never did.

---

As the years passed, I learned not to push him too hard. I still asked questions, of course—I couldn't help it—but I knew by now that he wouldn't answer the ones that mattered. Instead, I started talking to him about my life, telling him things I couldn't tell anyone else. He became my confidant, my quiet listener, the one I shared my hopes and fears with.

I told him about school, about how the other girls seemed so far away, like they lived in a different world. I told him about how I didn't quite fit in, how I was always thinking about the valley, about him. I told him about the books I read, the dreams I had, the way I sometimes felt like I was waiting for something—but I didn't know what.

He listened to it all, standing there in the snow, his expression soft but distant, as if he were both there with me and somewhere far away at the same time.

And every year, I fell a little more in love with him.

---

By the time I turned 16, the valley had become more than just a place—it was a world, our world. The snow, the trees, the quiet—it was all ours. And every year, when the first snow fell, I would run there, knowing he would be waiting, just like always.

That winter was different, though. It was colder than usual, the snow heavier, the sky darker. When I reached the valley, he was there, just like I expected, but something felt off. He wasn't standing still, like he usually did. Instead, he was pacing, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he was waiting for something.

I called out to him, my voice echoing in the quiet air. He turned to me, and for the first time, I saw something like fear in his eyes.

"Why are you pacing?" I asked, my breath coming out in short puffs as I approached him. My heart was racing again, but this time it wasn't just from excitement. Something was wrong.

"I'm running out of time," he said softly, his voice barely louder than the wind.

"What do you mean?" I reached out, wanting to touch him, to hold him still, but he stepped back, just out of reach. It was the first time he had ever done that.

"I'm not supposed to be here," he whispered, his eyes flicking to the sky, as if he were expecting something to fall from it.

"What are you talking about? You're always here. Every year."

He shook his head, his expression tight. "Not always. Not forever."

The cold that crept into my bones wasn't from the snow. "But you'll come back next year, right? You always come back."

He didn't answer.

---

The year I turned 17 was the longest year of my life. The snow didn't come until late, and every day that passed without it felt like a lifetime. I spent my days waiting, watching the sky, hoping, praying for the snow to fall.

When it finally came, I ran to the valley, my heart in my throat. But when I got there, he wasn't waiting for me. The valley was empty, the snow untouched. For the first time in years, he wasn't there.

I waited for hours, standing in the cold, my breath freezing in the air. But he never came.

I went back the next day, and the day after that, but the valley remained empty. No matter how long I waited, he didn't appear.

I told myself it was just a fluke, that something must have kept him away this year, but that he would come back the next winter. He had to. He always did.

But deep down, I knew something had changed. I could feel it in the way the wind whispered through the trees, in the silence that filled the valley. Something was missing. Something had been lost.

And I was terrified that it was him.

---

I turned 18 on a quiet, snowless day. It felt wrong. Winter wasn't supposed to be like this—so empty, so quiet. I kept waiting for the snow to fall, for him to return, but as the days passed, I realized that he wasn't coming back.

I was alone again.

I kept coming back, even though there was nothing. Each year, on the first snow, I would make the same walk to the valley of blossoms. It was always quiet. My footsteps would crunch through the fresh powder, a reminder of how alone I was. Every step felt heavier with the weight of memories.

I kept hoping. The first few years, I would rush, breathless, to the same spot, expecting to see him standing there, waiting, just like before. But the valley was empty. No figure in the distance, no familiar warmth. Just me, and the snow falling softly around me, settling into silence.

I would wait for hours, watching as the sun began to set behind the bare trees, turning the snow pink and gold. And still, nothing. Then I would leave, my heart heavy, yet still holding onto a thread of hope that maybe next year would be different.

As the years passed, that thread started to fray. But I couldn't stop. It became a ritual, something I needed to do, even if it hurt more every time. I would sit on the same rock by the frozen stream, staring at the place where we had met, where we had talked, laughed, and dreamed.

By the time I turned 21, I stopped expecting him to be there. I still went, but the excitement had dulled. I would sit quietly, remembering him, and then I would leave. No tears, no desperate searching. Just an aching acceptance.

But something kept pulling me back. Maybe it was the hope I couldn't fully let go of, or maybe it was the fear of what it would mean if I did. If I stopped coming, it would be like admitting he was truly gone, and I wasn't ready for that.

Years passed like this. The valley of blossoms became a place of memories, but they were fading, just like the brightness of the flowers buried under snow. My life outside of those visits went on, but something in me had frozen with the first snow after he disappeared.

When I turned 25, something changed.

I remember walking into the valley that year, not feeling the same familiar weight of disappointment. It was colder than usual, and the wind bit at my cheeks. I wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck, bracing myself for another silent visit.

But this time, as I approached the stream, something caught my eye.

There, at the base of the same tree where we used to sit, was a small envelope, its white edges barely visible against the snow.

My heart stopped.

I rushed over, hands trembling as I picked it up. It was addressed to me. In his handwriting.

Tears stung my eyes as I ripped it open, my breath catching in my throat. The letter was simple, yet it held all the answers I had been waiting for.

He was sorry for not coming all those years. He had been trying, trying so hard to reach me, but something had been stopping him. He was trapped, held back by forces beyond his control. He didn't explain much, just that he had been watching, trying to break through.

But he asked me for help. The letter was clear: if I wanted to see him again, I had to go to the cove where we had first met. There, he said, I would find him.

I stood there for a long time, staring at the letter, my mind spinning. Part of me couldn't believe it. After all these years of silence, of emptiness, was this real? Could I trust it?

But deep down, I knew. I knew it was him.

I folded the letter carefully and held it close to my chest, feeling the cold seep into my fingers. I had waited so long. I didn't care what it took—I was going to him. I didn't wait.The moment I found the letter, something inside me surged—hope, fear, determination, all at once. I couldn't bear another moment of wondering. I had waited years, too many years, for him to come back. Now I had to go to him.

The cove wasn't far, just beyond the valley, nestled between steep cliffs that overlooked the ocean. It was a place we had found together, back when we were young, when everything seemed possible. It had always felt hidden from the rest of the world, like a secret that only we knew. And now, it was where he wanted me to go.

I didn't tell anyone. There was no one left to tell, anyway. My parents had long since stopped asking where I went each year on the first snow. I had stopped explaining. No one understood, and no one would understand why I was going now.

The walk to the cove felt surreal, like stepping through a dream. The snow fell softly, covering the world in a thick, white silence. The wind had died down, and the trees stood still, as if they were holding their breath. With every step, I felt like I was getting closer to something impossible, something that had been just out of reach for so long.

When I finally reached the cove, the sky had begun to darken. The waves crashed softly against the rocks below, their steady rhythm grounding me in the moment. I stood there for a while, just staring out at the horizon, letting the cold air fill my lungs. It felt strange to be back here, after all these years. Everything looked the same, yet nothing was the same.

And then I saw him.

At first, I thought it was a trick of the light, or maybe my mind playing games with me, after so long of wishing and hoping. But no—there he was, standing at the edge of the water, his back to me, just like I remembered. The same figure, the same presence. It was him.

I called out his name, my voice breaking the silence.

He turned slowly, and when our eyes met, my heart nearly stopped.

He was there, but not quite. His form shimmered slightly, like he wasn't fully a part of this world. His eyes, those same deep, warm eyes, were filled with a sadness I had never seen before.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of the waves. "I tried so hard to come back to you."

I ran to him, my legs moving before I could think, but as I got closer, I realized something was wrong. He wasn't solid. His body flickered, fading in and out of existence, like a ghost.

I reached out, desperate to touch him, to feel him, but my hand passed through him, like he was made of mist.

"No," I gasped, stepping back in horror. "No, this can't be happening."

"I'm not supposed to be here," he said, his voice strained. "I'm from another time, another world. I shouldn't have crossed over."

I stared at him, trying to make sense of his words. "What do you mean? Why can't you stay?"

He looked at me with such pain in his eyes, it made my chest ache. "The barrier between our worlds... it's too strong. I've been trying for years, but every time I get close, something pulls me back. I'm not supposed to be here. It's against the laws of the universe."

I shook my head, tears spilling down my cheeks. "I don't care about the laws of the universe! I don't care where you came from. I need you here. I need you with me."

He took a step closer, his form flickering again. "There's only one way I can stay. You have to confess the truth. The feelings you've been hiding, the ones that bind us together. If you do, it might be enough to keep me here."

The truth.

I had always known what I felt for him, but I had buried it deep, afraid of what it might mean. Afraid that it was too much, too strong. But now, standing here, with him slipping away, I knew I couldn't hold back any longer.

"I love you," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I've always loved you. From the moment we met, I knew you were special. I waited for you, every year, because you were the only one who ever made me feel alive."

As the words left my lips, something shifted. His body began to solidify, the flickering fading, and for a brief, glorious moment, he was real. He was here.

He took a step toward me, and I reached out again, my fingers brushing against his arm. This time, I felt him—warm, solid, real.

But it didn't last.

As he took another step, his body began to break apart. First, it was his hand, dissolving into mist. Then his arm. He tried to move closer, but with each step, more of him faded away.

"No," I sobbed, reaching for him as his body began to unravel. "No, please, don't leave me!"

He was only a few steps away now, his face twisted in pain as he tried to reach me. "I'm sorry," he whispered again. "I'm so sorry."

And then, in the space between one step and the next, his head fell, and his body crumpled into nothing.

I screamed.

The sound tore through the cove, echoing off the cliffs, but there was no one to hear it. I fell to my knees, my body shaking with sobs as the reality of what had just happened crashed over me.

He was gone. Again.

But this time, it was worse. This time, I had seen him, touched him, only to lose him all over again. The emptiness was unbearable, crushing, suffocating.

I didn't want to live in a world without him.

I stood slowly, the numbness spreading through my body. The wind had picked up, swirling the snow around me, but I barely felt it. All I could feel was the pain, the hollow ache in my chest where my heart used to be.

I walked to the edge of the cliff, the ocean crashing far below. The waves called to me, their dark depths promising an end to the pain, an end to everything.

I took one last look at the spot where he had stood, where we had once dreamed of a future together. And then, without hesitation, I stepped forward, letting the wind and the waves carry me away.

In that final moment, as the cold water closed over me, I felt nothing but peace.

Because now, finally, I was with him again.