Daisy’s Secret

Daisy was a carpenter in Christchurch, a town renowned for its sceneries and toughness. Quietly she lived within the borders of a small, quaint workshop on the outskirts of the town, enchanted by days warmed by the soothing murmur of the saws and other days filled with the perfume of wood freshly cut. She took every piece she created as imbued with life, a secret that in her heart she kept, like the desire to love and be loved.

From that day forward, everything in her life changed when she got to know this reclusive neighbor; an enigmatic man had just moved into that tiny cottage next to hers. They met when exchanging a mere greeting, but eventually became attached, felt closer than the springs and autumns of seasons. Most evenings would be spent discussing books, their dreams, and lives in general. Daisy found her heart flutters in ways it had never done before and nurtured under his gentle gaze and warm smile.

The man never spoke of his past, hardly said much of himself, but there was a darkness surrounding him, a kind of loss that reflected her own silent yearning, and she had found herself going to him, day after day, so that she could not think of ever living without him. She longed to tell him all she felt, to explain in words how he lit up her world. But fortune would have it that the story these two had was one fated not to be an easy one. One evening, as they sat by a small fire in her workshop, he broke the news: he would be leaving soon.

He had been called to serve for the war threatening their homeland. The news struck Daisy like a cold wind. The neighbor was all she had, the only one she'd ever felt close to. But she understood, duty being duty. There was a quiet goodbye, a lingering glance, and an embrace that said all things unutterable. And then, he was gone. Daisy flung herself into work, tried to get used to the shape of his absence.

But the ache in her chest got worse; at times she could almost hear his voice, feel the presence beside her as she worked late into the night. The world was hollow, as if part of her had gone out with him. Letters were few and far between, full of duty and longing, which she clung to as if to lifelines. She read and read every letter repeatedly, committing to memory each line, feeling closer to him through his words. Yet however often she read them, they only deepened the mystery that surrounded him. Months went by, and he was not returning. When the letters came to a stop, hope dwindled into an aching pain that she couldn't assuage. She clung to every memory, every quiet evening he had shared with her, but the thought began to creep into her heart that she might never see him again.

One autumn evening, rummaging through her attic in the old trunks and boxes she had stored away, she stumbled upon something that made her heart pound: a letter in familiar handwriting directed to her. She opened it up, thinking how odd it must be, only to find another letter, then another, and all those words she had read before—words she once had written herself. Gaping open-mouthed in stupor as realization struck upon her.

And the man she fell in love with, living next door, was a creation of her heart, some kind of mirror in which such loneliness had been carved within.

She remembered everything about him-the gleam of his eyes, the attentive way he listened as if it mattered-the moment she finally realized that all this had been a reflection of her own soul, the incarnation of inner strength and love for oneself she had long buried. Daisy sank down onto the floor holding letters close to her chest.

She did not weep because of pain but was so moved by the beauty as she had wove a love tale to mend her broken self where she found friendship in that part of her life that she forgot. That loneliness she carried as a companion was taken from her: the truth - she was never in need of anyone to be complete. She was her strength, her love, and her friend all along. Then with this discovery, Daisy went back into her workshop and started to regain an enthusiasm in things she once thought were just the usual thing of life.

She made tables, chairs, and cabinets, unmatched passion; she never saw a need for anyone to go back to her for validation, knowing that kind of love was very real as it was born out of what was within. And she learned to love her loneliness, to respect her strength, and to love herself the way she had loved her mythical neighbor. Lastly, Daisy's heart was able to be fit for everything that was held inside of her. She was now whole; she no longer waited but lived, created, and grew, finally, peacefully within who she had always been. The love she had waited for was hers all along—waiting patiently within her own soul.