Lavender letter
In moonlit hush, a petal fell—his name etched soft and true,
A silver trail on woodland paths where quiet magic flew.
She read his words with a trembling heart, the scent of love in the air,
And wondered if the wings she saw were ever really there.
But truth, once whispered by a sprite, outlives enchantment’s hue.
Each morning brought a lavender note, laid gently on the seat,
Its ink a song, its paper warm, where heart and silence meet.
She held them close like fragile threads that stitched her soul anew,
Yet still beneath the oak, she dreamed of wings in silver dew.
Was it illusion, fleeting light—or something deeper still?
One line appeared, both strange and sweet, upon the final page:
“Where you have walked, the wings remain—a trace that will not age.”
Her breath caught in the garden’s hush, and the stars began to stir,
And in her hand, a blossom lay—his name inscribed in blur.
The fairy came, no words exchanged, just truth in petals’ grace.
“True hearts,” it said, “outlast the spell, and time cannot erase.”
She wrote to him with a trembling hand, her voice now clear and wide,
No longer just the reader of the love he dared to hide.
And in that ink, a garden bloomed, where magic once had grown—
Not from the wings, nor whispered charms, but love she’d made her own.
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