The Best of Us

By Peter Bowden


They stacked the kindling with the care of gardeners planting in spring, each piece laid with purpose. The crackle of the first flame whispered against the cool evening air, stretching shadows over the stone ring. She poured the wine, her fingers steady, the burgundy swirl catching the firelight. He watched the flicker dance in her eyes, knowing that the best parts of yesterday still lingered in the warmth of their touch, the creak of the old wooden swing, the quiet of their early mornings.

As the fire grew, they leaned back in their worn, woven chairs, the heat brushing their faces, pushing back the chill. They spoke of places they’d seen, roads they’d wandered, the laughter of children echoing like distant chimes. He reached for her hand, their fingers entwined like the roots of an old tree, deep and enduring. They remembered the storms they had weathered, the bright sunrises after the long nights, and the promises they had kept without ever speaking them aloud.

In the fading light, they spoke of tomorrow, of walks by the river, the slow bending of years, and the softness of falling leaves. The fire crackled, sparks spiraling into the indigo sky, and they drank to the days ahead, to the warmth in their hearts and the steady pulse of a shared life. As the embers whispered and the night wrapped around them, they felt the best of themselves there, in the quiet, in the warmth, in the promise of another fire, another glass, another shared breath.


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