When I was a child, my mother wanted to live out in the country. So, my father saved to buy the land and sold his shop to build a farm. The trade of the bustling city for the lively sounds of nature made it difficult to sleep at night, and the work of farming was far more demanding than running a shop. My father worked hard to learn the land and care for livestock. I worried about him a lot, so I did whatever I could to help. I wondered if he ever regretted moving, but when Mom smiled, he smiled and when she laughed, he laughed.

A couple of months later, a family moved down the road from us. My parents were ecstatic to have people to talk to, and I was thrilled they had a child I could play with all without having to travel to the city. She had long black hair and eyes the color of honey. She always wore flowy dresses and a yellow hat I could spot from afar. After the morning chores were done, we would walk through the meadows or venture through the trees. On the days we visited the city, we took our allowance to buy candy and share it. She was kind and outgoing, carrying our conversations to lengths I’d never reached with anyone else.

When my parents passed, I took over the farm. Every day, she helped until I could begin to heal from my grief. When Alya’s parents passed, she inherited their farm. Then it was my turn to ease her heartbreak. Eventually, each day we shared a table she would bring her bread, and I would bring soup. Together, we kept each other fed.

On slow days, we would go out to the kingdom to visit the marketplace or treat ourselves to pastries from the bakery. Sometimes we would converse with old family friends or the new ones we made from the merchants we delivered to. We still walked through meadows, and on cold days, we sat by the fire to keep warm. When either of us got sick, we took care of the other both bedside and on the farm.

We kept everything in the open, teasing back and forth. Bickering was always cut short by laughter, and her teasing always brought a smile to my face. She would call me her “ball and chain” to poke fun. She was more than a friend; she was my partner, and I wanted to take the plunge to make it official. But we had already shared everything, what else could I give her?

Then I remembered those days when she would leave with her family and return with the fish they shared for dinner. She always went on and on about wanting to live by the ocean, to have a little house where she could fish and swim. Days without worry about work or cleaning. She spoke of the salty smell and the crisp breeze. That’s when I knew what I wanted to do.

Each day, I saved the money I earned from selling tools and making deliveries until I had enough to buy land, a cliffside overlook. My first idea was to ask around for tips on how to build a house. I even tried to do it on my own, to no avail. I called on our friends for help, and fortunately, they were adamant about helping carry out the plan.

It took a while. The mortar required trial and error. Sometimes the fence and walls slumped, and even lifting the stones onto the cart took everything we had. Every other day, we would go out there to build, making mistakes and starting over working together with trial and error. Breaks from frustration and exhaustion were frequent.

Alya probed many times about what I was doing.

“Just helping some friends with a project.”

But I was never a good liar. Her eyes narrowed like a hawk trying to pinpoint her target. She could tell I was up to something, but as the holder of the surprise, I had the advantage. She even tried to follow us to the construction site, so we had to improvise distractions to keep her from finding out.

The rough moments came from injuries, sprained ankles from walking up the hill, thrown-out backs, and the challenge of finding excuses for how they happened.

After a whole year, the house was finally finished. We tested it by pushing on the walls and waiting a few days for changes. Once we brought over an official to verify its safety, it was time for one final step. I went out to the edge of the cliff, stared at the heavens above the cascading waters, and asked her father for permission to marry his daughter. The wind blew, and I felt the moisture kiss my cheek. I took it as a sign to finally propose.

I rented a carriage, and though she was quiet with her face turned away the whole ride, I caught a glimpse of her smile. It was wide, and her cheeks were blushed. Did she already know?

We arrived, and she immediately hopped off, running in her sundress and yellow hat up to our little home. It reminded me of when we were kids, when she would run up to our house.

“Is this for me?”

“I was hoping it would be for us,” I said, grabbing her hand as we gazed into each other’s eyes. “You’ve said before you wanted to live by the sea.”

She embraced me, squeezing my waist.

“Yes, I would love that, but…”

She looked away. I could see the glimmer of grief in her tears of joy. It was understandable—we had lived our entire lives at that farm. Would we continue to maintain it? Would we sell it? As days passed, we talked. The idea of letting go of the farm hurt me a little, so we decided to stay and use the little house for our off days.

A chaplain came by to officiate our wedding, which we held outside that house by the sea, with our friends attending as witnesses. We returned to our usual days of tending and sharing at the farm. Every now and then, we would spend the night at the seaside home, walk on the beach, and even go fishing. Fishing was something I had never done, so she had to show me.

Over the next five years, we brought four little ones into the world. We raised them on the farm and took them to the seaside home to play. When it came time for them to run the farm, Alya and I moved to the cliffside house. We spent our retirement in quiet solitude, visited often by friends until they dwindled one by one, and our children and our grandchildren. We shared our story so often that even in our senile days, we never forgot it.

Our daily ritual was sitting in our chairs together on that cliffside, watching the rising sun and the setting one. Even after her passing, I continued that ritual until my own last day. Maybe, just maybe in heaven, we’ll have a little home ready for us to live in. If not, I’ll build another. Even with my friends, I would do it all over again.