“That's fine, neither does he,” he waved it off. “He says it doesn't matter if you believe in God — what matters is if He believes in you. My friend had a choice once: jail, the army, or the clergy. Figured black robes suited him better than stripes or camo. But he's officially ordained, and his certificate will be recognized in any state.”

“Wait. Are you proposing to me right now?” she asked cautiously, as if testing thin ice.

He lifted her easily from the chair and, ignoring the loud protest from their rickety bed, gently set her down. Dropping to one knee, he took her hands in his.

“You're my fiery little sun, lighting up every day of my life. I wake up thinking about how much you mean to me, and every evening I rush home just to see you again. I love you with all my heart, and I want to be with you — forever, if you'll have me. We've been together three years, and I only love you more with every passing day. Please, please, sunshine... will you marry me?”

He pulled a small black box from his pocket and opened it. She looked down at the thin metal band, a tiny diamond chip catching the light in a rainbow of colors.

“This must've cost you a fortune,” she said softly, slipping it onto her finger and admiring the tiny spark.

“Saved a few breakfasts,” he declared proudly. “And... I pawned my car.”

“Your "Volkswagen Beetle"?! That museum relic from '65, with the original upholstery that's never been cleaned, and a gas tank that leaks into the cabin every time you hit the brakes? No one would give you more than fifty bucks for that! Except maybe a scrap dealer — a blind one.”

“The ring cost seventy-two fifty,” he confirmed. “And they're letting me keep the car until the loan term's up. So... is that a yes?”

“After you proved I'm worth more to you than that pile of scrap? Of course it's a yes!” She threw her arms around him and kissed him hard. From the neighboring apartment came a burst of applause, followed by a cheerful shout: “Kiss the bride!” She broke the kiss just long enough to say:

“Hold on — I've got something for you too. I actually meant it for our anniversary, but now it qualifies as a wedding gift.” She wriggled free of his embrace, dove into the nightstand, and pulled out another small black box. He opened it reverently — and froze in awe.

“Wow... Tissot — with precision adjustment, date display, and even a moon phase tracker! Thank you, Sparky! This had to cost a fortune!”

“I haggled the salesman down thirty-eight percent before he threatened to call the cops on me for robbery. So no, not really. No ring for you, sorry — you'll have to wear this instead.” She snapped the metal band of the watch around his wrist. “The shackles of marriage' just got literal. And take good care of it — that's regular glass, easy to scratch or break. By the way, what time is it?”

He glanced at his brand-new watch.

“Almost three.”

“And how long does it take to get to your friend's church?”

“Forty minutes. Half an hour if the Beetle's starter behaves.”

“So, we've got an hour and twenty minutes,” she calculated. “A quick shower will take ten, drying off and getting dressed another twenty... Any ideas on how to spend the remaining fifty?”

Instead of answering, he swept her onto the bed.

From the apartment next door came a grumbling voice:

“At it again, huh?”

But the soon-to-be newlyweds didn't hear it.

Fifty-three years earlier

They sat at the bar, gazing into each other's eyes over half-filled beer steins. Each rested their chin on a fist, their other hands intertwined. He admired the golden flecks in her laughing eyes, the graceful line of her chin, the soft curve of her lips, and her thick red hair that seemed to capture every stray gleam of light. She basked in the love radiating from his gaze, letting her eyes wander through the unruly black hair he wore like a crown, and soaked in the open, unguarded love that filled his every glance. Somewhere in the background an amateur band struggled through a blues number, but for them, the world beyond each other simply had ceased to exist.

“Listen, Sparky,” he began, raising his stein. She noted that it hadn't even occurred to him to take his hand back from hers. “I just had the most brilliant idea.”

“Do tell,” she raised a playful eyebrow. “That's refreshing. You've got my full attention.”

“We've been dating for a whole year now,” he went on.

“Yep. Hence this very celebration.”

“I love you, and I've noticed you don't seem to hate me... Unless you're hiding it really well... Sunshine, how about we take the next step?”

“You've already met my parents.”

“And you've met mine! But that's not what I mean. I'm talking about moving in together. Trying this whole life-together thing for real.”

She fell silent. Despite her model-like beauty, behind that pretty face ticked a ruthless, high-speed supercomputer, analyzing facts at speeds engineers could only dream of. No wonder the aerospace faculty adored her — beautiful, brilliant, and every year she made the dean's list, consistently ranking in the top three percent of her class.

He mistook her silence for hesitation and rushed on:

“I'm graduating this year, and I'll finally get a real job — not just odd shifts bussing tables. You've got two years left. I'm finishing with honors, and I'm sure you will too. We'll get a tiny but cheap place to start — just a single room, frankly. I've got this realtor who promises me a real bargain. Imagine, he says that the apartment even has air conditioning! But he also claims we won't need it, even in the summer, so we'll save on the electric bill. We'll try living together — figure out the day-to-day stuff... I swear I'll squeeze the toothpaste from the bottom!”

She tossed her head, sending a red wave through her hair:

“Fine. I call the bed's window side. And if you forget to put the toilet seat down, I'll hang it around your neck.”

“Deal!” he practically shouted, convinced he could float right off the floor with joy. “Today is the best day of my life!”

“Of our lives,” she corrected, squeezing the hand she still held in hers.

They were young, blissful, brimming with ambition, and life stretched before them like an endless plain before the cavalry of Tamerlane — vast, wide open, and theirs for the taking, infinite paths branching in every direction. They could go anywhere; every road seemed to promise victory, because they were together, ready to support each other. They knew disappointments and sorrows would inevitably come, but accepted that truth philosophically — just like the October wind howling outside: the cold autumn rains, the November frosts, even January's biting sleet would come, but spring — full of warmth and that dizzying, intoxicating scent of new grass — would follow. Together, what couldn't they overcome?

Why, then the world's their oyster, which with sword they will open[1].

Last October

“I've caused you so much trouble,” the dying man whispered. “So much grief. I'm sorry... for every hurt I ever gave you.”

“Don't say that,” his wife leaned closer, her cheeks wet with tears. “It's true, you weren't always the perfect husband. But you made me happy. I've never been as happy as I was with you. All these years I was happy because you were with me, because you loved me. The rest is just noise. It doesn't matter. I was happy.”

“So was I,” he nodded, inhaling oxygen. “So was I.”

He moved his hand slightly. The old watch — the wedding gift from a lifetime ago — glinted on his wrist. She gently stroked his hand with hers, the thin gold band with its tiny diamond still shining faintly on her gnarled finger.

The wind, slipping into the room, made the guitar strings in the corner hum a soft, mournful note, and swayed the two framed diplomas on the wall, but stilled before touching the third frame.

“We lived a good life,” he murmured, his voice barely a breath.

“Indeed, a wonderful life,” she whispered through her tears.

“I'm proud you were my wife, Sparky. By the way, I suppose it's safe to ask now. What's the score on our tally? It's till two for me.”

The old woman tossed her head with the same motion that once sent waves through her red hair, and his heart ached at the sight, overwhelmed by tenderness.

“Two to one, my love. Two to one. All these years. Two to one.”

He squeezed her fingers gently — he had no strength left for more. Slowly, he turned his head to the window. The sky was darkening rapidly; only the highest mountain peaks still caught the last golden light.

“The sun's setting. I don't want to leave in darkness. It's time. ... My darling, could you... Please. I can't do it myself.”

Her heart breaking, her vision blurred with tears, she reached out with a trembling hand, flipped the safety cap, entered the code, and confirmed the final command twice. Another liquid began flowing through the IV into his vein.

“We've got about a minute left,” came his faint whisper. “Then I'll sleep. Thank you, my sunshine. You were everything to me. From here, you'll have to walk alone.”

She wanted to answer, but was terrified her voice would break and betray her grief. She couldn't bear the thought of him spending his last moments thinking of her pain. Panicking, she glanced around the room, and her eyes landed on the last frame, the one next to the diplomas. Behind its glass was a yellowed, nearly faded sheet of paper, its words barely legible.

He followed her gaze and smiled faintly with the shadow of the grin she'd have moved heaven and earth for.

“I'm so glad I wrote that letter,” she said.

“If you hadn't... I never would have become who I am. Thank you for that too. Goodbye.”

“No, thank you, my love. You answered it. Farewell. Rest easy... and dream of our best days.”

“Every day was our best.”

He smiled once more, then gently closed his eyes. His chest rose... once... again... and then fell still. The heart monitor emitted a monotone whine.

Without looking, she reached out and switched off the machines. For the first time in ages, the house fell utterly silent. And that silence tore through her more than the loudest, most unbearable scream. She released her husband's hand — it fell lifelessly to the sheet — and broke down in bitter sobs.

The mountain peaks outside faded. Night rushed over the world. The cold wind, sensing its newfound dominion, swept through the room again, rocking all three frames on the wall. As her sobs subsided, she could hear people moving in the next room. The grief counselor prepared to step in. There, too, waited children, grandchildren, surviving friends — including the minister who had married them — and medics ready to dismantle the equipment and tend to the deceased.

The widow took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the sobs back down into her chest. The room was growing dark with every moment. If she didn't turn on the lights, she could pretend he was only sleeping — deeply and peacefully. For a time, she would choose to believe that. Later, perhaps, she would pretend he'd gone on a business trip.

Slowly, she stood up, rubbed her aching back, and turned once more to that third frame, still gently swaying in the cold October breeze.

The letter. The one that had started it all.

Fifty-four years earlier

“Hi! I'm Jamie.”

She gave a quick, casual glance at the lad standing in front of her.

“Nice to meet you, Jamie.”

“I... uh... I'd like to take you out for coffee.”

She studied him more closely. Why was he being so direct? It was obvious he was flustered and had no idea what to do next.

“I live at Moon Street, 27.” he blurted. “You sent me a letter. You know, the one where you said you thought I was nice and you wouldn't mind going out with me sometime. At first, I thought it was a joke, but then I figured... Even if it was, what do I have to lose by asking?”

Ah, she thought, finally understanding.

Billy the Bounder — the dream of every girl in the neighborhood — roared around on a motorcycle, strummed his guitar like a rock star, and had a smooth, velvet baritone that made every girl's heart float straight up to heaven. Girls flocked around him like sparrows, and Billy the Bounder took full advantage. Not wanting to be just another conquest, she'd decided to play it smarter, to stand out from the crowd of fluttering eyelashes. She wrote a letter confessing her attraction. Surely Billy didn't get many letters, she reasoned over the stationery.

The letter had turned out vague and non-committal — she didn't want Billy thinking she was too easy. She hadn't mentioned the motorcycle or the guitar either, because she didn't want to seem shallow. Finally, the letter was addressed simply to “you” because “Dear Billy” felt premature, and she hated the nickname “Bounder.” And somehow, she'd failed to notice how generic the text was. This letter could just as easily have been meant for any guy in the neighborhood.

Billy the Bounder lived at 27 Noon Street.

The mailman had delivered the letter to 27 Moon Street.

The return address was real. Tracking down the sender was easy. It was meant to.

And now Jamie was standing in front of her, completely convinced that she found him attractive and had agreed to a date in advance — if only he had the courage to ask.

She looked him over again. Actually... he was kind of cute — tall, well-built, with open, honest face. His tousled thick black hair suggested infrequent brushes, but his teeth were straight and white, so hygiene wasn't neglected. His jeans were worn at the knees, and his battered leather jacket had clearly seen better days — definitely not a rich boy, which meant he probably wouldn't act like he owned the world. He had a car key dangling from his fingers with the VW logo on the keychain. Probably not a gift — the keychain was too scratched, the key itself worn as well — meaning he'd bought the car himself for his hard-earned money and was proud enough to flaunt it. He probably thought it scored him some extra points. Well... it did. His knuckles weren't bruised or scarred — so he wasn't the brawler type. And the way he was blushing! How utterly charming!

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