Who reads my story

First, Wicker, let me take you to a flower bed because when I first saw her, she was sitting in the back garden of the cafe with a daisy in her hair—a daisy flower bed like this, hair. I had ordered a cup of chamomile tea and a slice of carrot cake and was looking to work on my novel. I had already been there for two years, and now I had the eighth draft and my red pen was ready to take it further. Around ten o'clock, I put salt and pepper on my pile of leaves and went to use the toilet. When I returned, a woman with long, brown hair and in a floral summer dress was sitting in my chair reading my novel. Naturally, I said, "Excuse me?" He responded by raising his hand like a stop sign. I reached for my novel. He put it out of my reach and continued reading. I stood there in disbelief until his eyes reached the bottom of the page. At that time, I extended my hand for the return of my novel. He turned the page and insisted on his expression. I protested that my novel is not ready to read yet. He again emphasized his gesture. I protested that the paper he kept was my property. He replaced his gesture with a finger as if pleading for another moment. I sighed, bit my lip, and let him take it. Finally, he looked at me for the first time. I saw daisies in her hair, and beneath it, a face more beautiful than the summer sun. Pure, natural, immaculate beauty. After looking me up and down, she announced with a mischievous smile that she was going to keep my novel and that I would meet her on a wooden park bench in a week if I wanted it back. Saying this, she stood up and left. I called him, protesting that my novel was rough, unfinished, my property. She was already out of sight. Now go with me from this flowerbed to the wooden bench there. Sit down, and I'll continue my story. A week later, when I approached the park bench, I dare say that I was a little scared. However, when I sat down, she placed one hand on my eighth draft and one on my shoulder and told me in a slow, serious voice that my story set her imagination apart from the others. She told me my story was great but she was going to make it famous. These were his exact words and they warmed my heart. We used to sit on that bench for hours and hours, weeks and weeks, months and months. We deepened my character, raised my tension, expedited my action, and completed my c****x. Whatever he suggested, took a pencil from his lips and swung it around his finger, applied a rough edge, filled in a plot hole, or sent blood racing through the characters' veins. She lit a fire of purification and walked with me in it. And at the end of it all, we hold a piece of beauty written in our hands and memories of joy and reflection in our hearts. I also knew that, in his presence, I felt as special as the book we made together. Now, walk with me in the paddock because it reminds me of a field where we sat in the spring sun waiting for an answer from the luminaries. Every month we spent together, I became more attached to him. The beauty of her face, which initially caught me, quickly faded compared to the beauty of her heart. He charmed me, challenged me, and lifted me up. I thought his heart was pure gold. But then, I started seeing longer and longer glimpses of his soul and I fell in love with him. If I thought it was pure gold before, I know it is now studded with diamonds. I thought I had seen it all. I thought I had seen heaven. Then, one day, as we were sitting in one such field, I once again saw the beauty in her face. I had measured the height, knew the depth, increased the breadth, and now, with all my heart, I loved her face, I loved her mind, I loved her heart, and I loved her Soul, loved, and at once, harmony. She was physical and spiritual, joy and righteousness, body and spirit, angelic and human. It was love. Now, will you please follow me home? On the way, we will find a willow tree that I planted twenty-five years ago when I was twenty-five years old. Yes, it is, and I will resume my story on a bright morning in May, a month before planting this tree, when he was offered a job making ancient manuscripts in Milan. I celebrated his coming to the dream. When she danced, I danced, and when she rejoiced, I rejoiced. After that, I spent the last two weeks packing and preparing, confirming flight tickets and accommodations, saying goodbye to family and greeting friends, and shaking hands with her. And we drank tea, cycled around town, watched movies, did window shopping, ate pizza and I prepared myself to bid farewell. But when the night before his departure came, I could not sleep. All night long I saw myself sitting alone in the daisy field with wide-open eyes. The next day, after lunch, I took him to the airport. We talked about crazy Roman emperors and the big pizza, Leonardo da Vinci and espresso. When we arrived at the airport, I helped her carry her bag to the terminal and waited until she checked in. After that, I followed him to the security check gate. I held myself back from this moment - the moment she would take her first step away from me. I took a deep breath. I forced myself to smile. I burst inside. I wanted him by my side. I wanted to go with him. I couldn't leave my house. I couldn't leave him. I couldn't say goodbye. I couldn't say anything. I wanted everything and I didn't have anything. I stood there with tears in my eyes and was shaking hands and she left. Suddenly, she came back and kneeled before me. She wanted me to marry her. She explained that she waited for me to ask, but she couldn't wait any longer. I listened to his plea, I saw him on his knees and I was shocked, I was stunned and I cried. Somehow, in all my thinking, in all my wonder, in all my preparation for this moment, I had never prepared for it. She said that if I got a ticket for the next flight, she would get the ring duty-free. Instead, I told him that I was a young, unprepared, untrained, inexperienced boy who had to let all good things come to their true end. Those crazy, wrong words broke our hearts. She left without saying goodbye. A few weeks later, I got an advance on my book deal and bought this old house in the middle and planted this willow tree in the garden. I have heard that it is a symbol of abandoned love. I thought she looked beautiful... just like her. Years passed, and the willow grew until I could no longer hide behind its branches to cry. By then, I knew I had made a mistake, but by then, I also knew that it was too late to do anything about it. So, I'll hide behind a willow branch and think about that. I will miss his eyes, his smile, and his little fingers; his hair, that daisy, and the jingle on her nose. And I'll cry, and I'll try to write another novel. Words never came to the study or living room. They won't be ready. But I could always write something under the willow tree. I started talking to the willow tree as if it were his. I would ask Branches what she thought of my stories and I heard her voice, reply. She tells me where to put adverbs and where to leave them. She'll tell me where to foreshadow and where to weave subplots. But as the years passed and I managed to pluck a leaf or two under the tree every day, I realized that my characters were beautiful, mischievous, intelligent, committed, caring, and sad. They all had daisies in their hair. Now come join me with a rope swing on the beech tree. You see, I could not write after realizing that every character I have created is the same. So I spent hours hanging out there. I'll just swing... and think. Swing ... and regret. Hammock ... and ah. And life slows down. Life stopped. Life began to rot. In the spring, when the trees were in bloom, I heard him whisper in my ear, "Love is the root of life." In summer, when everything is in bloom, I hear her whisper, "Love is the gift of life." In autumn, when the leaves turn golden, I hear her whisper, "Love is the treasure of life." And in winter, when the snow covered the ground, I heard her whisper, "Love is the fire of life." It felt beautiful. It felt right. He told me that I desperately needed what I had lost forever. That's why he tortured me. And I shouted at him. And I swung. And he tormented me. And I screamed and bowed. Come on, let's go home. As I said, I can't write anymore. Since words were still my specialty and my bank balance and royalty slips were slowly disappearing, I accepted proofing articles in the local newspaper. This work filled my days and I went to the rope swings every evening for a few minutes. She always talked to me when I was there, but her voice was quiet everywhere. Evening journeys to the rope swing became like sacred rituals - moments of solitude. I began to wonder if everything else in my life was ready to move on from that. I started thinking about saying goodbye at the airport. I even missed two or three rounds of the rope swing. Then, I missed an appointment for a month. Then, a year. Then ten years. And I felt free. I thought I had a happy ending. I want to show you a tree behind the house that reminds me of myself. It is the oldest tree in the garden and supports the largest vines. You see, a week ago, today I turned fifty. My sister threw a grand party with balloons and cakes and streamers and a feast suitable for royalty. She spent hours on the phone trying to make the perfect guest list. She invited the hottest characters from family, friends, and coworkers. He excelled himself. It's not his fault that I don't know anyone in the family. They may be strangers to me. And it's not his fault that he had to go to his friends to find friends. And what great people. He celebrated my life as if it was his own. And of course, he did the right thing to invite my colleagues, but although I knew what work they did and what office they were sitting in, I didn't even know whether they'd get a pint of bitters or a glass. Likes wine. Each visitor had a spouse and children and a picturesque family life. Little did my sister know that the party would remind me for the first time in decades that I was still a ghostly man. I am an old, spiky tree overgrown by parasitic vines. How many times must they be told there is no happy ending before we believe them? And I think that's why my sister sent you, the local pastor, to walk in my garden and listen to my story. And I'm grateful. She is always looking out for me and she firmly believes that just telling stories helps to some extent. So, thanks for getting out of here and being with me. , , dear local pastor, who was listening silently with a handkerchief over her eyes, spoke for the first time. "Your sister told me to listen to your story, but she has no reason to send me." Vicker wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. "Do you really think it took your sister hours to invite her friends and family over the phone?" Vikar wiped his eyes again and placed his hand on her heart. "She was preparing your birthday present. Can you see the car driving? Do you recognize the face sitting next to your sister? The story of that face is similar to yours." Its residents went away in tears. Vikar hugged her and they went back and forth till the car stopped outside the house. "Isn't this tree the right place?" Vikar said, taking out the gold ring from his pocket. "She still wants to. Why do you?" He took the ring from the pastor's hand, and he groaned, and cried, and cried with joy.