In the small town of Willow Brook, where the trees whispered with secrets and the river raised the ancient stories, the name of a young couple was Emma and James. The story of his love began in the golden Dobad at the end of the summer, a time when the promises seemed to be eternal and the future was spread like an endless road.
Emma was an interesting artist to capture the beauty of nature on the canvas. His bright eyes and infectious laughter attracted James to a flame like insects. On the other hand, James was a quiet spirit, a poet who found peace in the jungle of Willow Brook. He often wrote verses that echoed the birds' songs and leaves.
His companionship was a picnic storm through the river, a dream of stolen kisses under the Willo trees, and dreams of whispering under dreams. James promises Emma's world and she believes in it, her heart is flavored with hope and love.
But as the weather changed and the summer dynamic colors fell into the quiet tones of the autumn, once their perfect romance began to become cracks. James has gone away, his brain often keeps away from Emma's grip. He disappeared for hours, and left Emma in surprise where her thoughts had taken her.
A crisp in October, Emma found James sitting near the river, her eyes flowed on the flowing water. She reached her cautiously, her heart is heavier than fearlessness. "James," he whispered, "What trouble do you have?"
James saw, his eyes became cloudy with the shadow. "Emma, my love," he started, his voice was tied up with sadness, "there are things I haven't told you."
Emma's breath was caught in her throat. She sat down with her, her hands were shaking in her lap. "Tell me," he emphasized softly, "Whatever is, we can face it."
James took a deep breath. "I received a letter," he confessed, "a letter in which I was called on duty. My country needs me, Emma. I should leave Willow Brook and join the fight."
Emma's heart sank. He heard stories of war and loss, about the promises that broken in the remote fields. "How long will you go?" He asked, his voice barely shouted.
"I don't know," James replied, his eyes are looking for his understanding. "I promise to come back to you, Yima. I really do."
That night, they held each other as if they were trying to impress their throat in their spirits. Emma saw James leaving the next morning, her figures disappeared from the road. She shook her promise like life, praying for her safe return.
The years changed, and Emma's world became a waiting scene. He threw himself into his art, grabbed the changing seasons with bitter brushes. Every stroke was proof of his sustainable love for James, a love that refused to end despite the passage of time.
The letters arrived intermittently, the news of each battles fought and the colleagues lost. James' words became his lifeline, a delicate thread connects it to a world he could no longer touch.
Then one day, as the first flowers of the spring painted the city in pink and white colors, a letter came that shattered Emma's delicate hope. James wrote about the wounds that will never be healed, about the promises made on the remote beaches that are now broken.
Emma cried for the boy whom he loved and the man who lost her from a war that had stolen more than life-her dreams and future stolen and her once of perfect love The fabric.
In the silence of her studio, Emma looked at the painting that she started long ago, a picture of James, under which she shared her first kiss. The colors were gone, as their promises exchanged them.
As time went by, Willow Brook forgot about the girl with the sad eyes who painted pictures of a love that was no longer there. Emma was living in her day in silent isolation, her heart hurts with the weight of blurred promises and unclear words.
But sometimes, on the evening of the summer, when the river whispered the secrets and the trees stirred like old friends, Emma swore that she heard James' laughter mixed with the air.