PART 2

(00:00 – The Silence Before the Storm)

The flame was the only living thing in the room.

It danced on the wick of a half-melted vanilla candle I’d bought at the dollar store three years ago, casting long, nervous shadows against the cinder block walls of my basement. The air down here always smelled the same—a mixture of damp concrete, dryer lint, and tonight, the metallic tang of pure, unadulterated fear.

I looked at the two young people standing in front of me.

Lucas was twenty-one, but in the flickering light, he looked twelve. His head was shaved, the standard-issue buzz cut that every boy in town sported these days. It was the mark of the Draft. It was the mark of General Claudius’s property. His hands, usually steady from working on engines at his father’s garage, were trembling so violently that the piece of paper he was holding—the handwritten vows—was shaking like a leaf in a gale.

Beside him stood Emily. She was wearing a pale blue dress that I recognized. It was her Sunday best, the one she wore to choir practice. She didn’t have a veil. We couldn’t risk buying one; a veil was a flag, a signal, a confession. Instead, she had tied a simple white ribbon into her hair. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen from days of crying, but in this moment, they were dry. They were steel.

They were holding hands so tightly I thought they might break each other’s fingers.

“We need to be quick, Val,” Lucas whispered, his voice cracking. He glanced up at the small, rectangular basement window. We had covered it with thick black cardboard and duct tape, but the fear of a stray beam of light escaping was always there. “The patrol passed Main Street five minutes ago. They’ll be looping back.”

I nodded, adjusting the stole around my neck. It was the only vestment I had left. The church had been “repurposed” as a recruitment center months ago. My basement was the only sanctuary left in this town.

“Breathe, son,” I said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We are not rushing this. If this is the last free act you do, we are going to do it with dignity. We are going to do it right.”

I opened my Bible. It was worn, the leather cover peeling, pages dog-eared at the verses about love and endurance. I didn’t need to read the words; they were etched into my soul. But holding the book gave me something to anchor myself to, a physical weight to counter the crushing pressure of the law outside.

“We are gathered here,” I began, my voice barely a murmur, “not in the sight of the State, nor in the sight of the General, but in the sight of God and Love itself.”

The words felt rebellious. In a world where loyalty to the Empire—to the Nation—was the only permitted religion, speaking of a higher power felt like treason. And perhaps it was.

General Claudius had been clear. His decree was broadcast on every radio station, plastered on every billboard, and pushed to every smartphone before they confiscated them. Decree 14-B: To ensure total focus and unwavering dedication to the defense of the Nation, all marriage licenses for conscription-age males are hereby suspended indefinitely. Emotional attachments are a liability to the war effort.

He wanted machines. He wanted meat for the grinder. He didn’t want men who would hesitate in the trenches because they were thinking about a wife back home. He didn’t want widows. He wanted victories.

But looking at Lucas and Emily, I saw the flaw in his logic. Lucas wasn’t terrified of dying. He was terrified of dying without ever having truly lived. Without ever belonging to someone.

“Lucas,” I whispered. “Do you take Emily, in this shadow, to be your light? To hold her in your heart even when the miles and the wars separate you? To claim her as your own, in defiance of any law that says you cannot?”

Lucas swallowed hard. He looked at Emily, and for a second, the fear vanished from his face, replaced by a look of such intense adoration that it made my chest ache.

“I do,” he said. It wasn’t a whisper. It was a declaration.

“And do you, Emily…”

CRUNCH.

The sound was subtle, but to us, it sounded like a gunshot.

It was the distinct, heavy crunch of a tactical boot on gravel. Right outside the window.

We froze. The three of us turned to stone statues in the dim light. The candle flickered, oblivious to the danger.

My heart slammed against my ribs like a trapped bird. I held up a hand, signaling for absolute silence.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Not a passerby. A walker. Someone pacing.

Then, a beam of light cut through a microscopic gap in the duct tape on the window. A high-intensity LED tactical light. It swept across the ceiling of the basement, a blinding white line in the gloom, before disappearing.

They were looking.

Lucas’s eyes went wide. He made a move toward the back exit, but I grabbed his arm.

“No,” I hissed. “The back alley is gravel too. If they are at the window, they have the perimeter secured. You can’t go out there.”

“They’ll find us,” Emily whimpered, her hands flying to her mouth to stifle a sob. “Val, they’ll k*ll him. They’ll send him to the Front Line penal battalions.”

I looked around my basement. Boxes of old Christmas decorations. A rusted water heater. A stack of old newspapers. And the coal chute.

It was an old house, built in the 1920s. The coal chute had been boarded up from the outside years ago, but the interior cavity was still there, hidden behind a false panel of wood I had installed for insulation.

“The chute,” I whispered, pointing. “Get in. Both of you.”

“Val, no,” Lucas argued. “If they find you…”

“If they find me, I am a clergyman confused about the curfew,” I lied, pushing him toward the wall. “If they find you, you are a deserter and a traitor. Get. In.”

I didn’t wait for him to argue. I shoved the false panel aside. It was a tight squeeze, dark and covered in decades of coal dust.

“Not a sound,” I commanded, my voice trembling now. “No matter what you hear. No matter what they do to me. Do not make a sound. Do you understand?”

Emily grabbed my hand one last time. Her palm was sweating. “Thank you,” she mouthed.

I slid the panel back into place. I kicked a pile of dirty laundry in front of it to mask the seam.

Then, I turned back to the center of the room.

I blew out the candle.

Total darkness engulfed me.

I stood there in the black, listening. My breathing sounded like a hurricane. I tried to slow it down. Inhale. Exhale. Psalm 23. The Lord is my shepherd…

BAM!

The front door upstairs didn’t just open; it exploded inward. The sound of wood splintering echoed through the floorboards above my head.

“CLEAR! GO! GO! GO!”

Heavy boots thundered on the hardwood floors above. The shouting was muffled but aggressive. Voices barking orders. Furniture being overturned. The distinct clatter of rifle barrels hitting walls.

“BASEMENT! CHECK THE BASEMENT!”

I heard the door at the top of the stairs fly open.

I didn’t run. I didn’t hide. I simply stood in the center of the room, clasped my hands behind my back, and waited.

A beam of light blinded me.

“HANDS! SHOW ME YOUR HANDS!”

I raised my hands slowly, palms open.

Three figures descended the stairs. They were dressed in full tactical gear—black body armor, helmets, face masks. No badges. No names. Just the insignia of the New Army on their shoulders. The leader kept his rifle trained on my chest.

“Secure him!”

Two of them rushed me. I didn’t resist. One kicked my legs apart, forcing me to my knees on the cold concrete. The other grabbed my wrists and wrenched them behind my back, securing them with a thick plastic zip-tie. He pulled it so tight I felt the circulation cut off immediately.

“Clear the room!” the leader barked.

They began tearing my sanctuary apart. They flipped the table where the Bible lay. The Bible slid across the floor, coming to rest near a drain. They ripped open boxes. They shined their lights into every corner.

My heart stopped when the beam of light passed over the pile of laundry hiding the coal chute. The soldier kicked the clothes. He paused.

Please, God. Please.

He poked the wall with the barrel of his gun. Solid wood. He grunted and moved on.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

The leader walked up to me. He pulled off his mask. He wasn’t much older than Lucas, maybe thirty. But his eyes were dead. Cold, hard, and utterly devoid of empathy. This was Captain Vane. I knew him by reputation. He was Claudius’s favorite enforcer.

He looked down at me, then at the half-melted candle that was still smoking slightly. He sniffed the air.

“Vanilla,” he said, his voice flat. “And… perfume?”

He crouched down so his face was inches from mine.

“You’re a popular man, Valentine. A lot of traffic in and out of this house late at night.”

“I offer counseling,” I said, my voice steady despite the pain in my shoulders. “People are scared, Captain. They need someone to talk to.”

“Counseling,” Vane repeated, standing up. He walked over and picked up the Bible from the floor. He leafed through it disrespectfully. “Is that what we’re calling it now? We have reports, Valentine. Neighbors who see young couples entering separately and leaving together. We have rumors of ceremonies. Illegal unions.”

He dropped the Bible. It landed with a thud.

“Where are they?” he asked.

“I am alone, Captain.”

Vane smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Search the perimeter again. Check the backyard. If anyone is hiding, shoot to maim, not to kill. We need examples.”

He grabbed me by the collar of my cardigan and hauled me to my feet.

“You’re coming with us.”

They dragged me up the stairs. My knees banged against the wooden steps, but I didn’t cry out. I couldn’t. I had to be strong for the two kids shivering behind the wall downstairs. As long as they took me away, the search would stop. I was the distraction.

We emerged into the cool night air. The street was lit up by the flashing red and blue lights of three armored SUVs. Neighbors were watching from their windows, curtains twitching. No one came out. No one dared. Fear is a powerful silencer.

They shoved me toward the middle vehicle. As I was pushed inside, I looked back at my house one last time. It looked dark and empty.

Stay quiet, Lucas, I thought. Stay quiet.

(The Processing Center)

The drive was silent. No one spoke to me. I sat in the back, the plastic cuffs biting into my wrists. We didn’t go to the local police station. We went to the Armory.

It was a massive brick building on the edge of town, surrounded by new razor-wire fences. This was where the laws were enforced now.

They processed me like cattle. Fingerprints. Mugshot. They took my shoelaces, my belt, and the small wooden cross I kept in my pocket.

“Personal effects confiscated,” the booking officer muttered, tossing my cross into a plastic bag.

“That’s a religious symbol,” I said.

“It’s a potential weapon,” he replied without looking up. “Move.”

I was taken to an interrogation room. It was stark white, lit by fluorescent tubes that hummed with an irritating buzz. There was a metal table and two chairs bolted to the floor.

I sat there for what felt like hours. It’s an old tactic. Let the prisoner sit. Let him stew. Let his imagination provide the torture that the law cannot.

I thought about the weddings. How many had I performed? Fifty? Sixty?

I remembered the faces. Thomas and Mary, who married two days before he was shipped to the desert. He never came back. Mary still wrote to me, telling me that being his wife, even for two days, was the only thing keeping her sane.

I remembered John and Michael. Two men who knew the army wouldn’t accept them, but the law wouldn’t let them marry either. We did their ceremony in a whisper so quiet I could barely hear myself.

I didn’t regret a single one.

Finally, the door opened.

It wasn’t Captain Vane. It was a man in a suit. He looked like a lawyer, but he moved like a shark.

“Mr. Miller,” he said, sitting down opposite me. He placed a folder on the table. “Or do you prefer Father Valentine?”

“Val is fine,” I said.

“My name is Prosecutor Kaine. I’ve been reviewing your file. It’s… quite extensive.”

He opened the folder. It was full of photos. Grainy, long-distance photos taken with telephoto lenses. Photos of people entering my house. Photos of me buying large quantities of candles. Photos of me talking to young men in the park.

“We know what you’re doing,” Kaine said, tapping a photo. “You are conducting unauthorized marriages in direct violation of Executive Order 14-B. You are aiding and abetting draft evasion by creating emotional tethers that compromise the mental fortitude of our soldiers.”

“I am administering the sacraments,” I replied calmly. “Marriage is not a contract with the State, Mr. Kaine. It is a covenant with God. The General has authority over their bodies, but he does not own their souls.”

Kaine sighed, looking bored. “Ideally, yes. But practically? We are at war, Val. We need soldiers who are focused. When a man has a wife, he hesitates. He thinks about survival instead of victory. You are weakening the army. You are putting the entire nation at risk because you are obsessed with some sentimental notion of romance.”

“It’s not romance,” I said, leaning forward. “It’s humanity. Without love, what are we fighting to protect? If we become monsters to defeat our enemies, then we have already lost.”

Kaine laughed. A dry, humorless sound.

“Philosophy,” he scoffed. “That’s all you have. Philosophy won’t save you from a military tribunal. Do you know the penalty for treason in wartime?”

“I am not a traitor.”

“You are subverting the will of the Commander. That is treason.”

He leaned in close. “Give us the names. Give us the list of every couple you have married illegally. We can annul the marriages. We can… re-educate the soldiers. If you cooperate, we can plead this down to civil disobedience. A few years in a minimum-security facility. You could be out in time for the next election.”

I looked at him. I thought of Lucas and Emily hiding in the coal dust. I thought of the secret ledger I had burned in the fireplace three nights ago, watching the names of my couples turn to ash and smoke, ascending to heaven where they belonged.

“There is no list,” I said softly.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“There is no list,” I repeated. “Because in the eyes of God, they are already one. You cannot undo what has been joined by the spirit. You can tear up the paper, you can burn the certificates, but you cannot separate them.”

Kaine stared at me for a long time. Then he closed the folder.

“Very well,” he said, standing up. “You want to be a martyr? We can arrange that.”

He walked to the door and knocked twice. The guard opened it.

“Process him for the Tribunal,” Kaine said over his shoulder. “Capital charges.”

(The Kangaroo Court)

The trial happened three days later. I call it a trial, but that’s a generous word. It was a performance.

It was held in the gymnasium of the local high school, which had been converted into a temporary courthouse. The bleachers were empty, save for a few rows of uniformed officers and a handful of terrified citizens who had been “invited” to witness justice being served.

There was no jury. Just a panel of three military judges sitting at a folding table on the basketball court, elevated on a platform. Behind them, a massive flag hung from the rafters.

I was led in, shackled hand and foot. My cardigan was torn, my face unshaven. I looked like a criminal.

The Prosecutor, Kaine, was theatrical. He paced back and forth on the polished wood floor, his voice booming.

“This man,” he shouted, pointing a finger at me, “is not a holy man! He is a saboteur! While our brave young men prepare to bleed for this country, he is busy weaving chains of weakness around their ankles! He whispers to them that their personal happiness matters more than the collective survival! He is a poison in the well of our patriotism!”

He called witnesses. Neighbors who had seen the lights. A confused young man who had been arrested for desertion and coerced into admitting I had counseled him.

I was not allowed a lawyer. I was told I could speak in my own defense.

When my turn came, I stood up. The shackles clanked loudly in the silence.

I looked at the judges. I looked at Kaine. And then I looked at the few civilians in the back. I saw the mother of one of the boys I had married. She was weeping silently.

“I have no defense,” I said. My voice was raspy from days of not speaking. “I do not deny what I did.”

A murmur went through the room.

“I am guilty,” I continued, my voice gaining strength. “I am guilty of believing that love is the strongest force in the universe. I am guilty of believing that a soldier fights harder when he has something to come home to, not when he has nothing to lose.”

“I married them,” I declared, looking directly at General Claudius, who was sitting in the front row, his face a mask of stone. “I married them because they are human beings, not assets. And if punishing me for that is what this law requires, then the law is sick.”

“Silence the prisoner!” one of the judges barked.

A guard struck me in the kidneys with the butt of his rifle. I collapsed to my knees, gasping for air. Pain exploded in my side.

“The prisoner will stand down,” the judge said.

They didn’t deliberate long. Maybe five minutes. They whispered amongst themselves, casting glances at the General. He gave a barely perceptible nod.

The head judge stood up.

“Valentine Miller,” he read from a paper. “You have been found guilty of Treason, Obstruction of Military Recruitment, and Sedition. Under the Martial Law Act of 2024, there is only one sentence for these crimes.”

The room went deadly silent. I could hear the hum of the ventilation system.

“You are sentenced to d*ath.”

I didn’t flinch. I had expected it. But hearing the words out loud was like a physical blow.

“The sentence will be carried out by firing squad on the morning of February 14th,” the judge continued. “To serve as a reminder to all citizens that the needs of the State come before the desires of the individual.”

February 14th. The ancient feast of Lupercalia. A day of fertility. A day of spring. A fitting day to die for love, I supposed.

“Take him away,” the judge ordered.

(The Dungeon)

They didn’t take me back to the holding cell. They took me to “The Hole.”

It was a solitary confinement block in the basement of the Armory. My cell was six feet by eight feet. No window. Just a solid steel door with a small slot for food. The bed was a concrete slab with a thin mattress. There was a stainless steel toilet and a sink.

The sound of the heavy door slamming shut was the loneliest sound I have ever heard.

Clang.

Then the bolts slid home.

Click-click.

I was alone. Truly, utterly alone.

I sat on the cot. The fear that I had been holding back finally broke through the dam. My hands started to shake. I buried my face in them and wept. Not for myself—though I was terrified of the bullet that awaited me—but for the work left undone. For the couples who would now have nowhere to go.

For the darkness that was falling over my country.

Days bled into nights. I had no way of telling time. The lights were kept on 24 hours a day, a harsh, bleaching light that burned my eyes.

I tried to pray, but the words felt hollow. I felt abandoned.

“God,” I whispered to the ceiling. “Are you here? Did I do the right thing?”

Silence.

Then, about a week into my confinement—or maybe a month, I couldn’t tell—I heard something.

It wasn’t a guard. It wasn’t the clanking of trays.

It was a scratch.

Scritch-scratch.

I looked at the small ventilation grate near the floor. It led to the outside world, or at least to a courtyard.

A small, folded piece of paper was being pushed through the grate.

I froze. Was it a trap?

I crawled over on my hands and knees. I pulled the paper through. It was a page torn from a notebook, folded into a tiny square.

I unfolded it with trembling fingers.

It was a drawing. A simple stick figure drawing of a man in a cardigan holding a book, and two smaller figures holding hands. And underneath, in crayon, were the words:

WE REMEMBER.

I stared at it. Tears blurred my vision.

Then, a voice. A soft, female voice, whispering through the vent.

“Father Val? Are you there?”

I pressed my face to the cold metal grate.

“I’m here,” I whispered back. “Who is this?”

“My name is Julia,” the voice said. “My dad is the night warden. He… he doesn’t like what they’re doing to you. He told me which cell is yours.”

“Julia,” I breathed. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous.”

“I know,” she said. Her voice sounded young, maybe eighteen. “But everyone is talking about you. The kids at school… they’re wearing red ribbons hidden under their shirts. For you.”

A jolt of electricity went through me. Red ribbons.

“Tell them not to,” I said urgently. “Tell them to be safe.”

“They won’t stop,” Julia said. “You started something, Val. People are writing letters. They’re throwing flowers over the prison wall. The guards keep sweeping them up, but more come every morning.”

I leaned my head against the wall. I wasn’t forgotten. The love hadn’t been extinguished. It had just gone underground, like a seed waiting for spring.

“Julia,” I said, a new strength filling my voice. “Do you think… do you think you could bring me a pen?”

There was a pause.

“I can try,” she whispered. “Dad falls asleep at the desk around 3 AM. I can try.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you, child.”

“I’ll be back,” she promised.

I heard her light footsteps fade away.

I sat back on the cold floor, clutching the crayon drawing to my chest. I looked around the bleak, gray cell. It didn’t look like a tomb anymore.

It looked like a pulpit.

My time was running out. I knew that. The 14th was approaching. But I wasn’t done yet. I had one more sermon to preach. Not with my voice, but with ink.

I closed my eyes and began to compose the letter in my head.

To the children of this broken world…

The lock on the door clicked, startling me. I shoved the note into my sock.

The slot opened, and a tray of gray mush was shoved through.

“Eat up, traitor,” a guard grunted.

I picked up the tray. It tasted like ash, but I ate it. I needed the strength.

I had a letter to write.

(End of Part 2)

PART 3

(The White Room)

Time is a liar in solitary confinement. It stretches and compresses, twisting into a loop until you can’t tell if you’ve been sitting on the cold concrete for an hour or a decade. In the “Hole” beneath the Armory, there was no sun, no moon, no ticking clock. There was only the Light.

It was a harsh, industrial halogen strip buzz-sawing into my retinas twenty-four hours a day. It bleached the color out of everything—my skin, my clothes, my mind. I began to lose the concept of “day” and “night.” I measured my existence in the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the guard’s boots during rounds and the twice-daily opening of the food slot.

I was Val Miller, formerly a man of the cloth, formerly a neighbor, formerly a citizen. Now, I was Inmate 14269. A number. A biological asset to be liquidated.

The isolation was designed to break me. General Claudius knew that a man with a cause is dangerous, but a man who feels forgotten is weak. He wanted me to believe that the world had moved on. He wanted me to believe that the weddings I performed were just fever dreams, that the love I defended was a fragile, useless thing that shattered the moment the handcuffs clicked shut.

For the first few “cycles”—what I called days—I almost let him win.

I sat on the thin, urine-smelling mattress, staring at the wall until patterns emerged in the concrete. I replayed my trial. I replayed the look on Lucas’s face when I shoved him into the coal chute. Did he make it? Did Emily get away? Or were they in a cell just like this one, cursing my name?

The doubt was a cold worm in my gut. Maybe I was wrong, I thought. Maybe Kaine was right. Maybe I am just a stubborn old fool who got people hurt.

My body was failing. The dampness of the basement seeped into my bones, waking up old arthritis. The food—a tasteless gray nutrient paste—barely kept the hunger pangs at bay. I lost weight. My ribs began to show through my tattered cardigan. I stopped shaving because they took my razors, so a white beard grew wild and scratchy on my face.

I was waiting to die. And I was trying to do it “in the happiest and most positive way” possible, as I had promised myself I would. But happiness is hard to manufacture in a box of steel and stone.

Then came the scratching.

It started low, a sound like a mouse scuttling inside the ventilation shaft near the floor. At first, I ignored it. Rats were the only other residents of this dungeon. But then the scratching became rhythmic. Tap. Tap. Scratch.

I crawled off my cot, my joints popping, and pressed my ear to the grate.

“Hello?” I rasped. My voice was like sandpaper; I hadn’t used it in so long.

“Is he there?” a soft voice whispered. It wasn’t a guard. It was too high, too gentle.

“I’m here,” I said.

That was the moment the universe shifted. That was the moment Julia entered my life.

(The Girl in the Shadows)

She wasn’t supposed to be there. This was a maximum-security military wing. Civilians were forbidden. But corruption has a way of seeping into even the strictest systems, and sometimes, that corruption is just a father’s weakness for his daughter.

Julia was the Warden’s daughter. I knew the Warden—Officer Miller (no relation), a hard man who followed orders as if they were scripture. But I didn’t know he had a child.

“My dad… he’s on the night shift,” she whispered through the grate that first night. “He falls asleep in the control booth. He thinks I’m in the breakroom reading.”

“You shouldn’t be here, child,” I warned her, though my heart was hammering with the joy of human contact. “If they find you talking to the traitor…”

“I don’t care,” she interrupted. Her voice had a stubborn steeliness to it. “I heard what you did. In the town. The weddings.”

We talked for an hour that first night. I learned that she was nineteen. I learned that she was lonely. And I learned that she was going blind.

It was a genetic condition, she explained. Retinitis pigmentosa. Her world was slowly narrowing, the edges fading into gray, the center becoming blurry. She lived in a prison of her own, one made of failing biology rather than steel bars.

“I’ve never seen a wedding,” she confessed one night, her voice trembling slightly. “I mean, I’ve seen pictures. But I’ve never seen one. And by the time I’m old enough to… to have one… I won’t be able to see his face. Whoever he is.”

My heart broke for her. Here I was, mourning the end of my life, while she was mourning the dimming of hers.

“You don’t need eyes to see love, Julia,” I told her, leaning my forehead against the cold metal grate. “Love isn’t about what you see. It’s about what you feel. It’s the heat of a hand in yours. It’s the sound of a breath next to your ear when the world is silent. It’s the knowledge that you are not walking through the dark alone.”

“Is that why you did it?” she asked. “Why you broke the law?”

“I didn’t break the law,” I corrected gently. “I upheld a higher one.”

Our conversations became my lifeline. Every night, around 3:00 AM, when the heavy footsteps of the guards slowed and the snores of the Warden echoed down the hall, Julia would appear at the vent.

She became my eyes. She told me what the weather was like—if the moon was full, if it was raining, if the first crocuses of February were pushing through the snow.

One night, she slid something through the slats of the vent.

“Catch,” she whispered.

It was a small, bruised apple.

I held it in my hands like it was a holy relic. It smelled of the orchard. It smelled of rain and earth and freedom. I took a bite, and the sweetness exploded in my mouth, so intense it made my eyes water.

“Thank you,” I wept. “Thank you.”

“I brought you something else,” she said.

A pen. A simple, black ballpoint pen. And a few crumpled sheets of notebook paper.

“You said you wanted to write,” she said. “My dad… he checks the cells, but he never checks under the mattress. Hide them.”

I concealed the treasures instantly.

“Why are you doing this, Julia?” I asked. “You’re the Warden’s daughter. You’re supposed to hate me.”

There was a long silence.

“Because,” she whispered, “you’re the only one who talks to me like I’m a person, not a patient. And… because of the flowers.”

“Flowers?” I asked.

“You don’t know?” Her voice pitched up in excitement. “Val, you don’t know what’s happening outside?”

(The Revolution of Petals)

I had been in the dark in more ways than one. While I sat in my cell believing I was forgotten, the world outside was burning. Not with fire, but with color.

“The prison wall,” Julia explained, her voice breathless. “The one facing the main road. It’s… it’s covered.”

“Covered in what?”

“Flowers,” she said. “It started with just a few. A couple of daisies thrown over the razor wire. The guards swept them up. But the next day, there were more. Roses. Carnations. Wildflowers picked from the roadside. People are coming, Val. Young people. Old people.”

She described it to me, painting a picture in my mind that was more vivid than anything I could see with my own eyes.

Crowds of young lovers, the very people I had tried to protect, were gathering at the perimeter of the Armory. They stood in silent vigil. They didn’t scream. They didn’t riot. They just stood there, holding hands, defying the order that said they should be separated.

And they threw flowers.

Hundreds of them. Thousands. A rain of petals falling over the gray, imposing walls of the prison. The guards were furious. They patrolled the perimeter, threatening arrests, but they couldn’t arrest a whole town. They couldn’t arrest the wind that carried the scent of roses into the prison yard.

“They throw letters, too,” Julia said. “Folded up inside the bouquets. Or tied to rocks.”

“Letters?”

“To you,” she said. “They want you to know. They want you to know that they believe.”

“Believe in what?”

“In love,” she said simply. “They say: ‘We believe in love.’ They say: ‘Val is our Valentine.'”

I sank back against the wall, overwhelmed. Everything is wonderful, I thought, a strange, hysterical laugh bubbling up in my chest. I wasn’t a criminal. I was a catalyst.

The General wanted to build an army of unfeeling machines. Instead, he had inadvertently created an army of lovers. He had tried to ban marriage, and in doing so, he had made every relationship in the town an act of rebellion. Holding hands was now a revolutionary act. A kiss was a strike against the regime.

“They know,” I whispered. “They know I’m here.”

“They know,” Julia confirmed. “And they aren’t leaving.”

The next day, the Warden came to my cell.

He looked tired. His uniform was rumpled, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He unlocked the door and stepped in, flanked by two guards.

“Inspections,” he grunted.

They tore my cell apart again. They checked the toilet, the sink. They flipped the mattress.

My heart stopped. The pen. The paper.

The guard lifted the mattress. He saw the flattened sheets of paper and the black pen.

He looked at the Warden.

The Warden looked at the pen. Then he looked at me. Then he looked at the ceiling, where the faint sound of chanting could be heard from outside the walls.

“Clear,” the Warden said, turning his back.

The guard hesitated, confused. “But sir, the contraband…”

“I said clear,” the Warden barked. “There is nothing here but a dying man and his trash. Let’s go.”

They left.

I sat there, stunned. The Warden knew. He had to know it was Julia. He had to know she was sneaking things to me. And he had let it slide.

Perhaps even the heart of a jailer is not immune to the power of a father’s love for his child. Or perhaps he, too, was tired of a war that demanded men become monsters.

(The Meaning of the Red Thread)

As February progressed, the cold deepened, but the fire inside me grew hotter.

My execution date was set. February 14th. It was three days away.

Julia came every night now. We stopped talking about the weather. We talked about life.

She sat on the floor of the corridor, her back to my door, while I sat on the floor of the cell, my back to the door. We were separated by two inches of steel, but we were closer than two people in a bed.

“Are you scared?” she asked me on the night of February 11th.

“Yes,” I admitted. “I am terrified of the pain. I am terrified of the moment the lights go out.”

“Then why don’t you sign the confession?” she asked. “I heard my dad talking. Kaine is still offering a deal. If you recant… if you say you were wrong… they might spare you.”

“I can’t do that, Julia.”

“Why? It’s just words! You could live.”

“It’s not just words,” I said, tracing the cracks in the floor with my finger. “If I say I was wrong, then I am saying that they are wrong. Lucas and Emily. Sarah and Mike. All the couples I married. I would be telling them that their love is a mistake. That it’s weak. That it doesn’t matter.”

I took a deep breath.

“There is an old legend,” I told her. “From the East. It says that there is an invisible red thread that connects those who are destined to meet. The thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break.”

“A red thread,” she repeated.

“General Claudius thinks he can cut that thread with a sword,” I said. “He thinks he can sever the connection between people with laws and guns. But he can’t. The thread is made of something stronger than steel. It’s made of spirit.”

“I wish I could see it,” she whispered. Her voice broke. “My eyes are getting worse, Val. Yesterday… yesterday I couldn’t see the hands on the clock. It’s all going dark.”

“Then listen to me,” I said fiercely. “Close your eyes, Julia. Close them right now.”

“Okay,” she sniffed. “They’re closed.”

“What do you see?”

“Nothing. Blackness.”

“Look harder,” I commanded. “Imagine a light. Not a harsh light like this cell. A warm light. Like a candle. Can you see it?”

“A little,” she whispered.

“That light is you,” I said. “And as long as you have that, you are never in the dark. You have a kindness in you, Julia, that is brighter than any sun. You risked your safety to comfort a dying man. You brought the world to me when I was locked away. That is love. That is the red thread.”

“You really think so?”

“I know so. And one day, someone is going to hold the other end of your thread. And he won’t care if you can see his face or not. Because he will be too busy looking at your soul.”

I heard her crying softly on the other side of the door. It was a release. A cleansing rain.

“Val?”

“Yes?”

“You’re my Valentine,” she said. “Not like… not like a boyfriend. But… my friend. My hero.”

The words hit me harder than any bullet could. Be my Valentine.

“And you are mine, Julia,” I said. “You are my miracle.”

(The Last Sacrament)

February 13th. The day before the end.

The mood in the prison was heavy. Even the guards seemed subdued. The chanting outside had stopped, replaced by a heavy, ominous silence. The town was waiting.

Kaine came to see me one last time. He stood outside the bars of the inner sanctum, looking impeccable in his suit.

“Last chance, Miller,” he said. “The General is merciful. Sign the paper.”

I stood up and walked to the bars. I was dirty, bearded, and starving, but I felt like a king.

“Tell the General,” I said, my voice ringing off the steel walls, “that he can have my body. He can put me in the ground. But he cannot bury the truth. Love is the law of God, and his law is the law of men. And men turn to dust, Mr. Kaine. But love remains.”

Kaine sneered. “You’re insane.”

“Perhaps,” I smiled. “But I am free. Are you?”

He turned on his heel and stormed out.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I had work to do.

I took out the pen Julia had brought me. I took out the crumpled notebook paper.

My hands were shaking, but I forced them to be steady. I sat under the harsh halogen light and began to write.

I wrote to the town. I wrote to the soldiers. I wrote to the mothers and fathers.

But mostly, I wrote to her.

My Dearest Friend, I wrote.

Thank you for the friendship and the time you spent with me. Thank you for being the window through which I saw the world one last time. Thank you for the apple, which tasted of life. Thank you for the courage.

You are worried about the darkness, Julia. But do not fear it. The stars only shine when it is dark. You have been a star to me.

Do not let them make you hard. Do not let them make you bitter. Keep your heart open, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

I am going to a place where there are no wars. Where there are no armies. Where love is the air we breathe. And I will wait for you there, my friend. Not for a long time, I hope. But I will wait.

Until then, whenever you feel the sun on your face, know that I am smiling at you. Whenever you hear the wind in the trees, know that I am whispering a prayer for you.

I folded the letter carefully. It was the most important sermon I had ever written.

Then, I signed it. Not “Val Miller.” Not “Father Valentine.”

I signed it with the name she had given me. The name that belonged to the movement.

From your Valentine.

I sat back. It was done.

The scratching came at the vent one last time.

“Val?”

“I’m here, Julia.”

“They’re coming at dawn,” she choked out. “My dad… he told me. At dawn. In the courtyard.”

“I know.”

“I… I can’t stay. He’s waking up soon. He’s suspicious.”

“Go,” I said. “But take this.”

I slid the folded letter through the grate.

“What is it?”

“A thank you letter,” I said. “For everything. Keep it. Read it when… when it’s over.”

I heard the rustle of paper as she took it.

“I love you, Val,” she whispered.

“I love you too, child. Go now. Live.”

She left.

I was alone again. But the cell didn’t feel empty. It felt full.

I spent the remaining hours on my knees. I prayed for Lucas and Emily. I prayed for Kaine. I prayed for the General. I prayed that one day, their hearts would wake up.

I prayed until my knees were bruised and my throat was dry.

Then, the heavy door at the end of the corridor opened.

Boots. Many boots.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

They stopped at my door.

The key turned in the lock.

The door swung open.

Captain Vane stood there. He wasn’t smiling this time. He looked almost respectful. Or maybe it was fear.

“It’s time, Valentine,” he said.

I stood up. I straightened my cardigan. I brushed the dust off my knees.

I didn’t cower. I didn’t beg.

“I am ready,” I said.

They handcuffed me. They led me out of the cell, out of the Hole, and up the stairs.

As we ascended, the air changed. The smell of mold and despair faded, replaced by the crisp, cold scent of the morning.

We walked down the main hallway. And then, I heard it.

A low hum. A vibration in the floor.

As we neared the exit to the courtyard, the hum grew into a roar.

It was voices. Thousands of voices.

They were outside the walls. They had stayed. They were singing.

I couldn’t make out the words, but the melody was unmistakable. It was a hymn. A song of comfort.

Vane paused at the door. He looked at me.

“They’re here for you,” he said. “The whole damn town.”

“No,” I corrected him, stepping into the light. “They are here for each other.”

The sun was just breaking over the horizon. A pale, pink dawn. The color of a rose. The color of a heart.

It was February 14th.

And it was a beautiful day for a wedding. Or a funeral.

In the end, they are both just ceremonies of love.

(End of Part 3)

PART 4: THE END

(The Long Walk to Morning)

The corridor leading to the courtyard was long, a tunnel of gray concrete that seemed to stretch into eternity. My footsteps, heavy with the weight of chains, echoed against the walls—clank, shuffle, clank. It was a rhythm I had become intimate with, the percussion of the condemned.

Captain Vane walked beside me. For weeks, he had been a figure of menace, a shadow in a mask. But today, in the pale, watery light of dawn filtering through the high windows, he looked different. He looked tired. He looked human. He didn’t push me. He didn’t bark orders. He matched his pace to mine, a silent concession to the fact that I was an old man walking to his grave.

“It’s cold out there, Valentine,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a threat. It was almost an apology.

“The cold wakes you up, Captain,” I replied, my voice raspy but steady. “It reminds you that you are still alive.”

We reached the heavy steel doors. The final barrier.

I paused. My heart, which had been a frantic bird in my chest for days, suddenly slowed. It wasn’t stopping; it was settling. A strange, profound peace washed over me. I wasn’t afraid of what lay beyond those doors. I was afraid of leaving things unfinished. But as I touched the pocket of my cardigan—empty now, save for the memory of the letter I had passed to Julia—I knew I had done all I could.

The seed was planted. The rest was up to the soil.

“Open it,” Vane ordered the guard at the door.

The heavy bolts were drawn back with a screech of metal on metal that set my teeth on edge. The doors swung outward, and the world rushed in.

The first thing that hit me was the smell. After months of stale air, mildew, and the metallic tang of imprisonment, the air outside was a shock to the system. It smelled of frost. It smelled of wet pavement. It smelled of distant woodsmoke and pine. It smelled of America in February—harsh, biting, but undeniably alive.

I stepped out into the courtyard.

It was a large, enclosed square, surrounded by high brick walls topped with razor wire. The ground was paved with gray stone, slick with the morning dew. In the center, a solitary wooden post had been erected. At its base, the stone was stained darker than the rest, a grim reminder that I was not the first to stand there, and I likely wouldn’t be the last.

But I didn’t look at the post. I looked up.

The sky was a masterpiece. The sun was just beginning to crest the horizon, painting the underbelly of the clouds in strokes of bruised purple, violent orange, and a soft, tender pink. It was the color of a rose quartz. It was the color of a blushing bride’s cheek.

“Beautiful,” I whispered.

“Move,” a guard behind me said, shoving me gently.

I walked toward the post.

(The General and the Priest)

A small crowd had gathered to witness the end of the “traitor.”

To the left stood a phalanx of soldiers, standing at rigid attention, their faces blank masks of discipline. To the right stood the civilian officials, men in suits who shivered in the cold, checking their watches, eager to get this over with so they could go back to their warm breakfasts and their justifications.

And there, sitting on a folding chair in the front row, was General Claudius.

He looked exactly as he did in the propaganda posters—stern, chiseled, a monolith of authority. He was wrapped in a thick wool coat, his gloved hands resting on his knees. He watched me approach with eyes that were not angry, but calculating. To him, I wasn’t a man. I was an error in the code. I was a variable that needed to be subtracted to make the equation balance.

Prosecutor Kaine stood beside him, looking less confident than he had in the courtroom. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, avoiding my gaze.

I reached the post. Two guards stepped forward to secure me. They pulled my arms back around the wood and began to fasten the restraints. The wood was rough and splintered against my wrists, biting into the skin.

“Wait,” General Claudius said. His voice was not loud, but it carried across the courtyard with the weight of absolute power.

The guards froze.

Claudius stood up and walked toward me. He stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could see the gray in his stubble and the red veins in his tired eyes.

“You have caused a great deal of trouble, Valentine,” he said. “Do you hear that noise?”

I listened. Beyond the high walls, a low, rhythmic hum filled the air. It was the sound of thousands of people. They weren’t screaming. They were humming. A low, vibrating note that seemed to shake the very stones beneath our feet.

“They are singing,” I said.

“They are disrupting the peace,” Claudius corrected. “They are questioning the order. And it is because of you. You gave them a false hope. You made them believe that their personal desires were more important than the survival of this nation.”

“I gave them something to fight for, General,” I replied, looking him in the eye. “You want them to fight for a flag. I want them to fight for the home that the flag flies over. A home is not made of bricks. It is made of people. It is made of love.”

Claudius shook his head, a look of genuine pity crossing his face. “Love is a luxury, priest. War is a necessity. History will not remember your weddings. It will remember my victories.”

“History is written by the victors, General,” I said softly. “But legends? Legends are written by the people. And the people remember how you made them feel. You make them feel afraid. I made them feel whole.”

Claudius’s jaw tightened. The pity vanished, replaced by the cold steel of the commander.

“Proceed,” he said, turning his back on me.

(The Blindfold)

Captain Vane stepped forward. In his hand, he held a strip of black cloth.

“The blindfold, Valentine,” he said. “It makes it easier.”

“Easier for me?” I asked. “Or easier for them?”

I looked past him at the firing squad. Six young men. They couldn’t have been older than twenty. Boys. Just like Lucas. Just like the boys I had married in my basement. They were holding their rifles, but I could see the tremors in their hands. They were terrified. They didn’t want to kill a priest. They were just following orders because they were too scared to do anything else.

If I wore the blindfold, they would be shooting a faceless object. A target.

“No,” I said. “No blindfold.”

Vane hesitated. “It’s protocol.”

“I want to see the sun,” I said. “And I want them to see me. I want them to know that I forgive them. They need to see my eyes to know that.”

Vane looked at me for a long moment. Then, he nodded slowly. He pocketed the black cloth.

“As you wish.”

He stepped back.

“Squad! Ready!”

The six young men raised their rifles. The sound of bolts clicking into place was a sharp, mechanical clatter in the morning air.

I took a deep breath. The air tasted sweet.

I looked at the wall. I couldn’t see the people on the other side, but I could feel them. I could feel the “Red Thread” connecting me to them.

I thought of Lucas and Emily. Were they safe? Were they holding each other right now?

I thought of the old couple who ran the bakery, who had held hands through fifty years of hardship.

I thought of Julia. My brave, blind friend. I hoped she was reading the letter. I hoped she knew that she was the daughter I never had.

“Aim!” Vane shouted. His voice cracked slightly.

I didn’t close my eyes. I kept them wide open, fixing my gaze on the rising sun. The light was blinding now, washing out the gray walls, washing out the soldiers, washing out the fear.

Love is patient, I thought. Love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.

I smiled. A genuine, small smile.

It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

“Fire!”

CRACK.

The sound was deafening. It wasn’t one sound; it was six sounds merged into a single, thunderous roar that tore the sky apart.

I didn’t feel pain. Not really. I felt a massive impact, like a heavy punch to the chest, knocking the wind out of me. The world spun. The sky tilted. The pink clouds swirled into a vortex of light.

My knees gave way, but the ropes held me up.

The cold was gone. There was only heat. A spreading warmth in my chest.

My vision began to tunnel. The gray stone faded. The General faded. The walls dissolved.

And in that final moment, before the darkness took me, I didn’t see death.

I saw a field. A vast, endless field of wildflowers. And standing there, waiting for me, were all the people who had ever loved.

Love never fails.

And then, there was silence.

(The Letter)

At the exact moment the shots rang out, a mile away, in a small bedroom filled with the scent of dried lavender and old books, Julia dropped a teacup.

It shattered on the floor, sending shards of porcelain skittering across the wood.

She couldn’t hear the shots from here—it was too far—but she felt it. A sudden, sharp ache in her chest. A cold wind seemed to blow through the closed window.

She knew.

“Val,” she whispered, her hands flying to her mouth.

She sank to her knees amidst the broken china, not caring if the shards cut her skin. Tears, hot and fast, streamed from her useless eyes. She rocked back and forth, a keening wail building in her throat.

Her father wasn’t home. He was at the prison. She was alone.

But then, she remembered.

She scrambled to her feet, stumbling blindly toward her dresser. Her hands frantically felt for the drawer handle. She ripped it open and fumbled under her stack of sweaters until her fingers brushed against the cool, crisp texture of paper.

The letter.

She pulled it out. She couldn’t read it—not with her eyes. But she didn’t need to read it right now. She needed to hold it. She pressed the folded paper to her heart, as if she could absorb the words through her skin.

She sat on the edge of her bed, clutching the letter, and waited.

Hours later, she heard the heavy tread of her father’s boots on the stairs. He opened the door. He didn’t speak. He just walked over to her and sat on the bed.

He smelled of gunpowder and shame.

“Is it done?” she asked, her voice hollow.

“It’s done,” her father said. His voice was thick. He sounded like he had been crying.

“Did he… did he suffer?”

“No,” her father said. “It was quick. He… he refused the blindfold, Julia. He looked right at the sun.”

Julia nodded, fresh tears spilling over. “He would do that.”

“He gave me something,” her father said. “Before… yesterday. When he gave you the letter. He told me to give you this when it was over.”

He placed a small object in her hand. It was cold and metallic.

It was the ring from the grenade of a stun grenade—the safety pin. But Val had twisted it. He had bent the metal, working it with his bare hands in the darkness of his cell, twisting it until it formed a rough, jagged, but unmistakable shape.

A heart.

“He said,” her father choked out, “to tell you that the metal is hard, but the shape is eternal.”

Julia squeezed the metal heart until it bit into her palm.

“Dad,” she said softly. “Will you read it to me? The letter?”

Her father hesitated. He was a Warden. He was a man of the state. Reading the last words of a traitor was against regulations.

But he looked at his daughter. He saw the grief carving lines into her young face. He saw the red ribbon she had tied around her wrist.

“Okay,” he whispered.

He took the paper from her hands. He unfolded it. His hands shook.

He began to read.

“My Dearest Friend… To the children of this broken world…”

He read Val’s words. He read about the apple that tasted of life. He read about the stars that only shine in the dark. He read the plea for courage, the call to keep hearts open even when the world tries to close them.

The words filled the room, chasing away the shadows. They weren’t the words of a criminal. They were the words of a father, a teacher, a saint.

And then, he reached the end.

“I will wait for you there, my friend… Until then, whenever you feel the sun on your face, know that I am smiling at you.”

Her father’s voice broke. He couldn’t speak for a moment. He had to clear his throat.

“From your Valentine.”

Silence filled the room.

Julia took the letter back. She folded it along the creases Val had made.

“From your Valentine,” she repeated.

She stood up. She walked to the window. She couldn’t see the view, but she opened the sash. The cold air rushed in.

“He’s not gone, Dad,” she said.

“Julia, he’s…”

“No,” she said firmly. “He’s not gone. He just… spread out.”

(The Miracle of the Almond Tree)

They buried him in a pauper’s grave, in a plot of land behind the prison, designated for unclaimed bodies and traitors. No stone. No cross. Just a mound of disturbed earth.

General Claudius thought that would be the end of it. He thought the snow would cover the grave, and then the grass, and then the memory.

He was wrong.

The next morning, February 15th, the first miracle happened.

A guard doing the perimeter check stopped at the grave. He rubbed his eyes. He radioed it in, thinking it was a prank.

Overnight, an almond tree—an old, gnarled tree that had stood dead and barren near the fence for years—had blossomed.

It wasn’t just a few flowers. The tree had erupted into a cloud of brilliant pink blossoms. In the middle of February. In the freezing cold. It stood like a burning bush against the gray sky, its petals drifting down to cover the fresh dirt of Val’s grave in a blanket of soft pink snow.

Word spread. You can’t keep a miracle behind a fence.

By noon, the crowd was back. And this time, they weren’t just humming.

They brought shovels.

They didn’t dig him up. They planted.

They planted flowers along the perimeter. They planted ivy. They threw seeds over the fence.

And they brought letters.

Thousands of them.

Since they couldn’t mail them to Val, they started mailing them to each other.

“Be my Valentine,” the notes said.

“I love you, and I’m not afraid to say it,” they wrote.

Soldiers in the barracks found notes tucked into their boots. “Come home to me.”

The General tried to stop it. He issued new decrees. He banned the color pink. He banned the word “Valentine.” He banned the exchange of paper hearts.

But it was like trying to hold back the tide with a spoon. The more he banned it, the more powerful it became.

The soldiers started to change. They looked at the girls throwing flowers over the fence, and they didn’t see enemies. They saw the women they wanted to marry.

One by one, the rifles were lowered.

(The Fall of Claudius)

It didn’t happen overnight. It took months. But the foundation of General Claudius’s power had been cracked.

The army he wanted to build—the army of unfeeling machines—never materialized. Instead, he got an army of men who were fighting for the right to go home.

Desertion rates skyrocketed. Not out of cowardice, but out of defiance. Men simply walked away. They walked back to the farms, back to the garages, back to the waiting arms of their sweethearts.

Finally, the General was recalled to the Capital. He was replaced. The law, Decree 14-B, was quietly repealed. It was deemed “unenforceable and detrimental to morale.”

The weddings returned.

They weren’t secret anymore. They were loud. They were joyous. They filled the streets.

And at every wedding, before the bride walked down the aisle, the priest would light a single candle. A vanilla candle.

“For the one who made this possible,” they would say. “For Valentine.”

(The Legacy)

Years passed. The war ended. The fences around the Armory were torn down. The prison was converted into a museum.

But the grave remained.

It became a shrine. A pilgrimage site.

Every year, on February 14th, people from all over the country—and eventually, all over the world—would come to that small town in America.

They came to the almond tree, which never seemed to stop blooming.

They brought gifts. Not gold or silver. They brought chocolate—because it is sweet, like love. They brought cards—because words have power. They brought flowers.

And Julia?

Julia lived.

She never regained her sight, but she saw more than anyone I have ever known. She never married, but she was never alone. She became the keeper of the story. She sat by the almond tree every day, her hair turning from brown to silver, telling the story to anyone who would listen.

She told them about the priest who defied an empire. She told them about the weddings in the dark. She told them about the red thread.

And every year, on the anniversary, she would read the letter.

(Conclusion: The Note on Your Desk)

So, here we are. Today.

You might be reading this on your phone, sitting in a coffee shop, or maybe you’re at work, staring at a bouquet of overpriced roses on your desk.

You might think Valentine’s Day is just a “Hallmark Holiday.” A corporate invention designed to sell candy and cards. You might think it’s cheesy. You might think it’s a burden.

But I want you to look closer.

Look at that heart shape on the card. That’s not just a shape. That represents the twisted metal of a grenade pin, bent by the hands of a dying man who refused to let hate win.

Look at the signature. “From your Valentine.” That’s not just a sign-off. That was a revolutionary declaration. That was a man signing his death warrant to tell a lonely, blind girl that she was loved.

Think about the red. It’s not just a color. It’s the blood of the martyrs. It’s the fire in the basement. It represents the defiance of the human spirit against the cold, gray machinery of the world.

Val Miller didn’t die so you could buy a box of chocolates. He died so you could hold someone’s hand in public without fear. He died so you could stand at an altar and say “I do.” He died to remind us that in a world that wants us to be efficient, productive, and unfeeling, the most radical, dangerous, and powerful thing you can do… is love.

So today, don’t just buy the gift. Feel the weight of it.

Write the letter. Say the words. Forgive the grudge. Cross the ocean. Climb the wall.

Because life is short. The General is always watching. The winter is always coming.

But the almond tree is blooming.

And somewhere, in the quiet dark, a candle is still burning for you.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

(End of Story)