The Aroma of a Lost Love

"The air smelled of freshly brewed coffee and toasted bread, just like that winter when it all began. The clinking of cups on the counter transported me back to that moment. I sat at the same table, in the corner by the fogged-up window, waiting... even though I knew she wouldn’t be there."

It was a coffee shop like any other, but for him, that corner was a temple of memories. That’s where he first met her: a freezing December day, his worn jacket and grease-stained hands seemingly out of place in the elegant world she belonged to. But she... she was different.

"She had a beauty that seemed plucked from an ancient poem: her golden hair fell in soft cascades like winter sunlight; her eyes, a blue as deep as the ocean at rest, spoke of secrets only a sensitive soul could hold. Her lips, a crimson red, were like the petals of a freshly opened rose, and her demeanor, though fragile in appearance, hid a subtle strength, like a river flowing quiet but unwavering."

Every week, she arrived with a book in hand, but it was he who would read to her. There was something magical about those encounters, as if the rest of the world disappeared while he spoke each word with an almost sacred devotion. She would close her eyes, and a serenity would settle on her face that he had never seen in anyone else. For her, his voice was more than sound; it was a refuge, a melody that turned words into vivid landscapes where their vastly different worlds could meet.

In those moments, it didn’t matter whether it was a classic or a simple story. The words created a bridge between two worlds that were never meant to cross. He would watch her as he read, admiring every small gesture: the slight flutter of her eyelids at a touching phrase, the curve of her smile when the words brought something sweet. Sometimes he would pause to ask what she thought, and she would reply with reflections so deep that he felt both small and awestruck.

For him, those moments were everything. He had found a purpose that transcended his routine of grease and tools. Each time she left, she left behind a faint fragrance of jasmine and promises, and he would count the days until their next meeting.

One day, her seat was empty. Weeks passed before he learned the truth. Her father, furious upon discovering their relationship, decided to send her far away to France under the pretense of finishing her studies. Before leaving, she left him a letter.

The Letter (20 Years Later):

"My dearest,

By the time you read this, I will likely be gone, but I want you to know that I never intended to leave you. If the world were fair, you and I would read together until the end of our days. But my father has other plans, and I, though reluctant, must obey.

Every word you spoke, every smile we shared in that coffee shop, are treasures I will carry with me. No matter how many miles separate us, I will always remember you as the man who showed me that souls do not understand class or borders.

I promise to return someday. Perhaps when the stars are kind to us, and I can sit at that table once more, with you, and listen to your voice again.

Until then, don’t forget me.

With all my heart,

Emma."

He held the letter in his hands, the paper yellowed and worn with age. It was the first time he had found it, buried in a book he had never finished reading. Silent tears fell, not of sadness, but of a strange mix of gratitude and melancholy.

For the last time, he returned to the coffee shop. The place had changed, but his corner remained untouched, like a forgotten painting. He sat down and closed his eyes, letting the memories envelop him.

"Some loves are not meant to be lived, but to be remembered. And in those memories, perhaps, we find a piece of eternity."