Chapter 23: Where the Light Touches

The morning sun stretched its golden fingers across the garden, chasing away the last remnants of night. The world was quiet in that way only dawn could offer soft, unhurried, as if time itself had slowed just for us. The white and blue roses swayed gently in the breeze, their petals catching the light, shimmering like something out of a dream.

You stood in the middle of it all, eyes closed, face tilted toward the sky, as if letting the warmth sink into your bones. I watched, memorizing the way the light traced the lines of your face, the way the wind played with the edges of your clothes.

"Do you believe," you murmured, not opening your eyes, "that light can hold memories?"

I stepped closer, letting the question settle between us. "What do you mean?"

You exhaled slowly, as if searching for the right words. "Every time the sun touches something, it leaves a mark. Maybe not one we can see, but it's there. Like warmth lingering on skin, like shadows stretching long before disappearing. Maybe love is like that too. Maybe it leaves traces, even when we can't see them."

I stared at you, at the way the morning wrapped itself around you like something sacred, something eternal. "Then we must be covered in it," I said softly.

You finally opened your eyes, turning to face me, and in that moment, I knew.

Love wasn't just in the grand confessions, in the moments that made hearts race. It was here, in the golden light that touched your skin. In the silent understanding between breaths. In the spaces where words weren't needed.

I reached for your hand, letting my fingers slide against yours, feeling the warmth that remained there, the quiet proof that love like light never truly faded.

And as we stood there, wrapped in the glow of a new day, I knew that even long after the sun had set, even when darkness came again, its touch your touch would never leave me.