Decades blurred. Clara's dark hair silvered, but she still woke at dawn to watch the sunrise over the lake, their spot. She taught children to read at the library, her voice steady as she recounted Romeo and Juliet. "Love doesn't end," she'd say. The apple tree grew gnarled and strong, its branches heavy with fruit she baked into pies for veterans' fundraisers. Every Memorial Day, she placed a single red rose at the town monument, whispering, "Next year, Millor."
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