True Love, Rekindled

It's about two souls who meet.......again!

True Love, Rekindled
(A Short Story by Ann
For every love that never really ended—only waited.)

The sun was setting low on the horizon, casting gold across the water. The beach was quiet, brushed only by the hush of the waves and the distant cry of seagulls. My name is Maria and I love the ocean.

I walked slowly, barefoot, sandals in hand. The water felt warmer than usual. I came here because I needed peace—the kind you couldn’t find waiting in traffic, emails or loud city noises.
I noticed someone sitting on the beach, sketching.
He sat cross-legged, a notebook on his lap. He looked like he was in deep thought. He looked up as I neared, blinking as if he just woke up from a dream.
"You're not drawing me, are you?" I teased.
He smiled. “Only if you’re the wind that keeps rearranging the sea.”
I laughed—a light, genuine sound that surprised us both.


“Hi, my name is Maria.” 
“Mark” he said, standing and offering his hand.
When our palms touched, I felt a strange warmth run through my body. I didn’t feel nervous, but it was more of a feeling of recognition.
We began walking, the tide curling at our ankles. We talked like people who had nothing to prove - about books and gardens, about quiet jobs and sleepless nights, about the ache of something always just out of reach. It wasn’t love at first sight. It was something slower, and deeper. Like remembering a song you haven’t heard in years.
We kept meeting on that same stretch of beach, then for coffee, then for no reason at all. Love began to grow. By the time autumn arrived, it had settled into something whole and unshakable.

One evening, we returned to the place we first met, a full moon over the water.
“I’ve been having dreams,” Mark said. “I’m always someone else. A soldier once. A sailor. But you’re always there.”
I turned to him and said, “I used to dream about a woman walking along a shore. She was waiting for someone. I could never see his face.”
He nodded slowly. “I think… it’s not the first time for us.”

Later that week, in Mark’s apartment, I found an old leather journal among his books. Inside were sketches—one of a woman standing on a cliff, and the wind was blowing her long dark hair. The date was April, 1874. Beneath the drawing, was a name: Elena.
“It’s me,” I whispered.
Mark turned the page. Another sketch. A signature: Mark A. Ward. We sat side by side, the journal open between us. The past didn’t frighten us. It simply made sense of the quiet certainty that had always been there.
“I think we’ve loved each other across time,” I said.
Mark nodded. “And we keep finding each other.”

The next morning, I woke early and returned to the beach. The tide was out, revealing stones and driftwood and a perfect, unspoiled shore.
As the sky brightened, Mark arrived, carrying something small in his hand.
“I found this in the journal,” he said. “Folded between the pages.”
It was a pressed flower—faded, delicate. Lavender.
I smiled, tears rising.
“Will you marry me?” He asked, his voice as quiet as the sea.
I nodded. “Yes, again.”
And as the tide returned to meet the land, as the sun rose over the same horizon it had kissed for centuries, two souls who had waited lifetimes finally came home.