The Cherry Tree

 I woke up this morning to the sound of birds rustling through the cherry tree’s branches. Sunlight was slipping through the thin curtains, dancing across my bed in soft, golden patches. I hadn’t even fully opened my eyes when I heard Grandma’s voice from the kitchen, mixing with the smell of fresh bread and brewing tea: “Sara! Get up, breakfast is ready.” I slid out of bed slowly. The cool floor beneath my feet carried the freshness of the morning. I washed my sleepy face and sat down at the table. Grandma placed a steaming glass of tea in front of me with her worn, gentle hands, and I found myself staring out the window at the cherry tree. Its leaves were glowing in the sunlight, and without meaning to, I remembered the day David had been sitting up there—grinning, teasing me, shouting: “Hey! What are you doing up there?!” The same day my hand slipped and I fell from the tree, and he rushed me to the hospital. After breakfast, I needed fresh air. I put on my shoes and walked toward the park. On the way, the smell of salt and seaweed mixed with the cool breeze from the sea, brushing against my face. The sound of waves reached my ears like a lullaby without words. I settled onto a wooden bench by the shore and watched the fishing boats slowly disappear into the horizon. Hours passed, and I stayed there, lost in thought—in the days when David would come by on his noisy, old motorcycle, kicking up dust along the dirt roads, and I’d sit behind him, feeling the wind on my face. Around noon, I returned home. Grandma was standing by the window, watering the flowerpots. I walked over and sat on the steps under the cherry tree’s shade. Without taking my eyes off the pots, I asked: “Grandma… when you were young, did you ever fall in love?” She paused. Drops of water dripped from the jasmine leaves onto the ground. Then she smiled—a smile that wrinkled her entire face—and said: “Yes, my dear. Once. He was my father’s apprentice. Every day, he would carry fresh fruit baskets through the garden, and I would watch him from behind the window.” Her voice was soft, distant, as if she was speaking to lost memories: “I was sixteen when I realized I loved him. He was twenty-four, and every night, I would read poems to myself, dreaming of him. We planned to run away together… but he never showed up. Later, I found out he had married someone else.” She looked at me and said: “For years, I thought it was my fault. Until your grandfather came to me with a single cherry branch and reminded me that life, even after the hardest falls, still grows new branches.” Her words settled deep inside me, and we didn’t speak again until nightfall. That night, I went to my room. Through the window, I could see the cherry tree, its shadow stretching across the yard like a silent painting under the moonlight. I thought of David. Of the nights he would climb over the wall and we’d sit up in the tree—high above, where the wind shook the leaves and we spoke of our fears. I told him about my loneliness, and he, with a trembling voice, told me about his mother. About the morning he woke up and found the house empty. About his father, sitting on the couch with red eyes, saying: “She left. With a letter. With a stranger.” David once told me: “That day, I decided never to let anyone in. Because one day, without goodbye, they might leave and never come back.” That night, under the moonlight, our lips met, and for the first time, I believed I could save someone from their own darkness. But now, David was gone, and I was alone, thinking of those nights. I stayed awake until the heaviness of sleep finally closed my eyes. The next morning, I was startled awake by a loud knock at the door. It was Narges, with her familiar smile: “Sara, get up. We’re going to the café today. No arguments.” Reluctantly, I got up. In the café, the smell of freshly roasted coffee beans filled the small space. Narges lifted her glass of iced tea and said: “Sara, some people are only meant to stay for one season. Maybe David was just that season.” A bitter smile touched my lips, but I said nothing. When we stepped out, the sky was turning orange. Narges left, and I started walking aimlessly through the dirt streets. The smell of damp earth and the distant sound of cars filled my ears. I was so lost in thought that I suddenly found myself standing in front of Grandma’s house. I missed that tree. I missed those nights. I missed David. One day, I decided to go to David’s house. I walked through the familiar alleys with hesitant steps, and when I reached his door, I paused for a moment. I took a deep breath and knocked. Izabel opened the door, her eyes full of pride and resentment, and said with a sharp tone: “Hello! This isn’t your place. Go back to your studies.” David came up behind her, saw me, but said nothing. I looked into his eyes. I saw something flickering there—regret, fear—but he stayed silent. I didn’t say a word. I just turned around and walked away. Deep inside, I whispered: “It’s over now.” A few weeks later, Grandma took me to an island. We walked along the shore, step by step. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks, mixed with the smell of salt and seaweed, created a calm, thoughtful atmosphere. I knew these long walks and aimless shopping trips were her way of distracting me from thoughts of David. One night, under the moonlight, we sat on a large rock, and she told me again about her young love—this time with more pain, more detail. I understood then that she, too, had been broken, but she had never given up on life. That night, I realized I wasn’t alone. Months later, I returned to Grandma’s house. The yard welcomed me with the familiar scent of jasmine and damp soil. I walked toward the cherry tree. When I reached its trunk, I noticed a small piece of paper, its edges torn, taped to the bark. With trembling hands, I unfolded it. On it, in David’s bold handwriting, were the words: “Your love was stronger than the fear I carried. If you want to start again, tonight at 2 AM, on the cherry tree.” A deep smile rose from the core of my being. A laugh, from the bottom of my heart, echoed through the garden. As if the world had suddenly found its colors and scents again. I looked at the tree and, with a voice trembling with hope, I said: “I’ll come, David.” And under my breath, steady as a promise: “This time, you stay.”