The wind was gentle that night, rustling through the tall hedges like it carried secrets of its own. The moon glowed pale above the trees, silvering the stone path as Mary made her way to the west willow behind the estate gardens.
She had slipped out again—quieter this time. No vases. No footsteps heard. Just a heart thudding loud beneath her cloak, and the letter she'd sent returned in silence... with Isabelle's presence as the only reply she needed.
The bench beneath the willow stood in a shadowed crescent, kissed by moonlight.
And Isabelle was already there, sitting with her legs crossed, a faint smile on her lips and something unreadable in her eyes.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," Mary whispered as she stepped into the clearing.
"I was hoping you would," Isabelle replied softly.
Mary sat beside her, leaving a small space between them. The night wrapped around them like a held breath.
A few seconds passed before Mary asked, voice trembling, "Why did you kiss me?"
Isabelle looked at her—directly, completely. "Because I couldn't not kiss you anymore."
Mary's eyes fell to her hands.
"But why me?" she asked, softer. "You could have anyone."
Isabelle's smile turned gentle. "You don't remember, do you?"
Mary looked up, confused. "Remember what?"
Isabelle let out a breath. "When we were children, I lived just on the edge of town. My mother worked in your family's kitchen. You used to sneak outside to the orchard when no one was watching. I was the girl who sat with you beneath the trees while you picked wildflowers."
Mary blinked.
There it was—a flash. A little girl with ink-dark curls. Laughter. Braided crowns made of clover.
A memory, buried deep, resurfacing like a forgotten dream.
"That was you?"
Isabelle nodded. "I never forgot you. Even after my mother was let go, even after we moved to the city, I'd dream of you sometimes. And then—years later—when I saw you at the party… I knew."
Mary's chest ached. "All this time... I thought I was dreaming of someone who never existed."
"You weren't," Isabelle said. "You were dreaming of me."
Silence fell again.
It should have been magic.
But Mary's face twisted with fear and uncertainty. "I don't know what to do with this."
"You don't have to do anything," Isabelle said gently. "I just wanted you to know. I love you, Mary. I have for a very long time."
Mary stood up suddenly, turning away, voice shaking. "You can't say that. You can't love me like that."
Isabelle stood too, slowly. "Why not?"
Mary's eyes filled with tears. "Because it's not right. It's not… natural. Not in the eyes of God. Not in the world we live in."
Isabelle's voice was calm, but her hands trembled. "Do you truly believe love like this is unnatural? Or have you just been told it is?"
Mary didn't answer. She stared at the moon, chest rising and falling with quiet panic.
"I've prayed," she whispered. "I've prayed to not feel this way."
Isabelle stepped closer, her voice breaking. "I prayed for you to remember me."
Mary turned toward her, eyes wide and glistening. "Why couldn't you have been anyone else?"
"I could ask the same," Isabelle said softly. "But I wouldn't trade who I am. Even for a world that never wanted me."
Tears spilled down Mary's cheeks.
"I'm getting married," she choked. "I can't see you again. I shouldn't have come tonight."
Isabelle stepped back. Her face didn't break, but her eyes flickered with pain.
"I know," she whispered. "I just wanted the truth to live somewhere… even if only for one night."
Mary nodded once, slowly, and turned.
She walked away, her cloak trailing behind her.
And Isabelle stood under the willow, where dreams and memories had bloomed—and now, where they quietly wilted.