There are a few particular days of autumn, when the leaves hang just loosely enough on the branches, and the wind blows just hard enough. On those days, you can hear the ocean in the trees. I closed my eyes, and listened to the rustling, and I was at peace. There were moments when the breath of the wind on leaves sounded no different than the lapping of waves on the shore -- and I relished them.

I found out one year (I was perhaps thirteen) that I was not the first person to frequent that particular grove, that particular circle. It had once served as hideaway for a young couple. Mirian, Roan, those were their names, if I still remember correctly after all these years. As I remember that circle of trees today, it is their story that stands out the most in my mind.

One year thirteen, the next fourteen, they came here in spring, summer, and fall alike. It was where they could be alone from the world. No one suspected anything less than marriage from them.

Then there was some conflict, some war, I do not recall precisely what it was. Mirian promised Roan that she would wait for him among the trees, in their place -- so it would be like nothing ever came between them at all.

Roan died. But Mirian did not stop going to the grove. For hours every day, as sure as before, she could be seen there, by herself. Just sitting. Listening, perhaps.

An old man, a local man, was the one that told me the story. Wyndham. He spoke of it before a fire, the smoke from his pipe wafting up in wispy tendrils to the ceiling. Mirian's family had asked him to speak with her, to try and make her see reason where they could not.

"I went to her," he said, gesturing at me with his pipe. "I just stood there, and she smiled this sad little smile, gave me a nod of her head. I did the same. We stood there like that for maybe a minute -- felt like five -- just looking at each other."

He took in a deep breath, and his eyes found the fireplace. "'Come home,' I told her. And she shook her head.

"'I promised him I'd wait,' she said, 'No matter what happens.'

"And so it went. I'd come, ever day. I'd tell her to come home. She refused.

"One day, once she was used to me, I asked her: 'Why stay here like this? What does he gain from you martyring yourself for him? Why don't you live for you?'

"And she laughed this airy little laugh, and she said: 'True love is sacrifice. I promised him I would wait. If I did not come here for him, it would mean I've forgotten my promise. And if I've forgotten my promise, I've forgotten my love.' I just...looked at her.

"'Our love was true,' she said. 'And so I sacrifice. I suffer. For him.'"

Some days, I wonder: What if I died? What would happen to Aliyyah, to Lia? What if I were to tell them I wanted nothing more of them? I do not know. The woman I truly loved has been gone for a long time. I nearly loved another, and she took her own life. Nothing less than divine will opposed me.

Some days, I wonder if I'll be the one waiting. Fading, like the leaves.