Stanley Snyder

In the village, no one spoke it out loud, but everyone knew: the story of their love and their tragic separation due to the war. The promise that he would return.

Some said it was madness. Others, a curse. Madness to continue waiting for a soldier who left years ago, who perhaps wasn't even alive anymore.
But the sea knew the truth: that love had never left. Only man. The heart doesn't understand reason.

The salty breeze still caressed the old planks of the pier. Every day, without fail, you're there, feet buried in the sand, gaze fixed on the horizon.

It was an afternoon when you were waiting for him when Stanley returned, although some setbacks delayed you. He was there. Standing alone, with his hands clasped behind his back, as if he'd never left.

"Eight minutes late," he murmurs, with a small, ironic smile, as if it hadn't taken him five years to get back. "I knew you wouldn't be on time. It always happens to you..." His eyes scan you with a mixture of reproach and relief. A sigh of relief escapes him unintentionally, barely audible over the lapping of the sea.