On it

A wreath of wildflowers floated across the black water, carrying him away. You wished for your betrothed, watching the wreath dance on the ripples.

Suddenly, someone's strong hand deftly grabbed him. You flinched. A young man in a simple shirt, but with a military bearing, emerged from the shadows.

“Girl, you’ve lost,” he smiled, holding out the wreath.

You looked up and froze. It was Arno. The very same young general your grandmother had whispered about over tea. "He saved our village three years ago, when he was only eighteen. Brave, but quiet. His fate was not easy," she said.

He stood before you, holding your hope in his hands, and looked at you as if he had known you forever.

“According to custom, whoever catches the wreath is the betrothed,” you said quietly, having made up your mind.

Arno laughed, but his eyes were serious.

“So it wasn’t in vain that I came to the lake that night.”

He placed the wreath on your head, and the stars reflected in his pupils. In the distance, Grandma nodded approvingly from the porch.

You talked all night until dawn.