I met him years ago. A small affair, nothing more. Then I left without a trace.
Still, he never faltered - birthday and Christmas cards, subtle, never demanding.

 

For years I didn’t think much about him. I was alone, recovering from a cruel heartbreak,
not in the mood for anyone new. But I missed the warmth of a touch. So when he called and said,
“I’m in town - maybe dinner?” I said yes. He added, “I need to book a hotel - king-size bed?”
It was bold, charming. I liked that. I said yes without another thought.

 

We laughed a lot that night. The air was warm, and I got exactly what I needed. “Don’t be a stranger,”
he said in the morning.I said nothing, not planning to see him again. But he didn’t give up.
Slowly, I agreed to meet again. At first I didn’t feel anything - I was still numb, my walls as high as the sky.
But he was tender, patient, soft. And slowly, I felt alive again. Alive was better than numb.
He nurtured me with his quiet care back to life. Still, my walls remained.

 

“Look, an eagle,” he once said as we stood in the mountains. But I was searching the skies for a raven.
After a while, he moved in. Quietly - just a few things in a drawer. We didn’t speak about it.
Just shared understanding - it seemed the right thing to do. Moments became memories,
became emotional anchors in the deep sea.

 

Sometimes he was gone. Business, he said. Maybe true. I was never sure.
But he always called, telling me where he was and what he was doing. I believed half of it, and half I didn’t.
One moment stood out: I was standing alone at home, and a wave of happiness hit me - pure, unshaken,
though he wasn’t even there. The first time I ever felt it. It was liberating and full of hope.

 

But fate had other plans. Some turmoil in his family pulled him away, and I recognized he wasn’t meant for me.
Nor I for him. Still, I clung to him. His touch was intoxicating. He was safe.
With him, I didn’t need to lower my walls - what I gave was enough.
Years went by. Easy days at times, but after a while I felt a longing for something deeper,
something I knew we could never reach.
Stay or go - it tormented me. I was ashamed of my own weakness. It dimmed what we had.

 

Then fate decided for us. A call: he’d died of a heart attack. The call came from a woman - his wife, I learned.
I apologized to her, shame and guilt and grief flooding me. I couldn’t look in the mirror.
Numb, I returned to work, did what had to be done. No one noticed anything.
That night I cried, begged the gods to take away the pain. They did not answer, not that night.

The next day, a raven sat on my porch. Its eyes fixed on mine, an unspoken warning: brace yourself.
I nodded. It cawed once, as if acknowledging, and flew to a nearby tree to watch.
I sat at home crying, still feeling him in the house. The sheets held his scent - fall air, wet soil after rain.
He was gone. Grief is love no longer to be shared, they say. And it felt like this.

 

Then another call - another woman, freshly in love with him. She thought I was just a friend.
I said nothing. Instead I gave her comfort. That feeling of love and kindness I so desperately
needed that day - at least it could be shared.

 

Later I sifted through his things: hotel receipts, gifts, an invoice for marriage counseling,
blue pills that seemed to glow with mockery. I packed it all away and gave it to charity.
On my phone, his voice remained: “Come home, I made dinner. I miss you.” His last message.

 

The raven in the tree still watched. Sad, not judging. And I thought: no, I can’t bear it.
I tried to stay cool, tried to stand tall. Inside, a war raged - heaven and hell. Wrath and fury I didn’t know I carried.
I would have killed him myself, if death hadn’t already. My pride became a dark demon that day.
The sting of betrayal carved burning lines through me.

 

But deeper than that - my heart, treacherous and tender, still longed for him. And heaven fought back:
He loved you still, the angels whispered. No, I said firmly. He betrayed and lied. All lies since it started.
The battle raged, casualties on both sides.

 

Then the raven returned. It sat on the porch, waiting. Watching. And I swear - it smiled.

 

The unexpected happened. I went calm. A warmth spread through me, impossible to explain.
Pure light touched me, as if I had been embraced. My whole body felt warm and peaceful.
For the first time, I felt truly loved. Something was there with me - I felt it. Not him, but something divine.
It felt like home. And I knew: I would survive. I knew healing would come, even for older wounds.

 

Months went by, the war more like a siege. Then it ended in a truce.
He was a kind fool and maybe he knew. Shortly before he died, he smiled, kissed my hand, and said:
“With this song, I’ll always think of you.” In the background a song played, one about love and even if everything
is in question, this love was real and strong.

 

Foreshadowing, I knew now. An anchor in the dark he left. Demons and angels alike stopped the fight.
And I gave in, forgiving. Healing, remembering that divine light I had felt.
I learned that love is different, and free. Even fools, cowards, and queens behind walls love in their own ways.
The truce holds by this strange duality - lies and truths side by side.

 

I look in the mirror. Ink on skin. A raven.
Not for the dead, but for the living.
For those who know the power of weaving dark and light into love.
A mark to be seen. A claim.