Andreu had always been a strong man—a life spent under the burning sun and harsh winds of the open fields. He and Maria—his gentle wife with eyes that always carried hope—had been together for more than 40 years, weathering every drought, every flood, and every hungry season.

When they were young, they had nothing but a small wooden house and one simple dream: a happy family and a warm home to shield them from the storms. Maria used to say:
“We may be poor, but as long as you’re holding my hand, I’ll never be afraid.”

Andreu carried those words in his heart his entire life.

The years rolled by. Their children grew up and drifted away, each to a different corner of the world. The house grew quieter, emptier, until it was just the two of them, shuffling through their days side by side. Maria grew frail after a sudden illness, but never once did she complain. Every night, she would sit by the window, waiting for him to bring home a handful of wildflowers from the fields—a small habit born the day they fell in love.

Then one day, the doctor told Andreu: “She doesn’t have much time left.”
He froze. This man who had faced storms without flinching sat beneath the old tree in the yard and cried like a child.

That night, he went to her bedside, clasped her thin, trembling hand, and said softly:
“Do you remember our dream? Even if the whole world goes dark, I’ll keep a light burning for you—so you’ll never have to see the shadows.”

Maria smiled faintly.
“You’ve always been the light of my life, Andreu.”

On her final night, Andreu sat by her side, singing their old harvest song—the one they used to hum under starlit skies. When Maria closed her eyes for the last time, he never let go of her hand, afraid that if he did, the entire world would shatter.

On the day she was laid to rest, they found the old man sitting quietly beneath the tree, the sunset washing his silver hair in the color of dying flames. In his hands, he still held a small bunch of wildflowers—the ones Maria had waited for, until her very last breath.