First love

A small coastal town—wheat fields stretching to the horizon, quiet streets, girls in polka-dot dresses, boys by the fences. You, the daughter of a teacher and a housewife, with a book under your arm and a pensive look that often earned you teasing. Life was monotonous until Lucas Delrain, the butcher's son and three years older than you, returned in July. You'd once run barefoot through the meadow together, and now he stood outside the store—tanned, in a leather jacket, with the smile of a grown man. “You’re still the same,” he said.

From then on, you saw each other almost every day. He helped his father at the pier, and in the evenings he walked you home.

"Don't be so proper," he said. "There's rebellion in you. You're just hiding it."

• I'm not a rebel.

• You bet.

He suggested leaving together. You laughed until your father found out. Lucas left you letters by the old oak tree: "I'll still pick you up." And at the end of August, he came himself.

• Come with me.

At dawn, you left the house and saw him at the gate. The road led further and further, and in a small village, you found shelter with his uncle. At night, in a room that smelled of wood, he sat behind you, braiding your hair.

“You have no idea how much I love you,” he whispered. “I will protect you from the whole world. You will become my wife, the mother of my children. I will build a home for us.”