She was known in the village as the sad girl. Not because she cried often, but because her silence was louder than any scream. Her eyes, always searching the horizon, seemed to be waiting for something—or someone—that never came. People whispered about her past, about the family she lost in the fire, about the boy who left with a promise and never returned. But she never spoke of it. She simply lived, quietly, like a shadow stitched to the edge of the world.
Then one day, a stranger arrived.
He wasn’t handsome in the usual way. His clothes were worn, his boots dusted with miles, and his voice carried the rasp of someone who had shouted into storms. He walked into the village square and said only two words: “Take me.”
No one knew what he meant. Was he offering himself? Was he asking for help? Was he mad?
But the sad girl, sitting beneath the old willow tree, looked up. For the first time in years, her lips parted.
“I will,” she said.
The villagers gasped. She hadn’t spoken in so long that some had forgotten the sound of her voice. But she stood, walked to the stranger, and took his hand.
They married that evening, under the fading light of a sun that seemed to linger just a little longer than usual. No priest, no vows, just a quiet agreement between two souls who had nothing left to lose.
The stranger—whom she called “Take Me,” as if that were his name—never spoke of his past. He built her a house on the edge of the woods, where the trees whispered secrets and the wind carried old songs. He carved her a chair from cedar, planted her a garden of lavender and thyme, and every morning, he left a note on the table: “I am yours.”
She began to smile.
It was a small thing at first, like the curl of a leaf in spring. But it grew. She laughed once when he tripped over a root. She sang while hanging laundry. She danced in the rain, barefoot and wild, while he watched from the porch, his eyes full of something like awe.
But happiness is a fragile thing.
One day, a traveler came through the village and recognized Take Me. He called him by another name—one that made the sad girl’s heart sink.
“He’s a deserter,” the traveler said. “He ran from the war. Left his comrades behind.”
The villagers turned on him. They demanded answers. They wanted justice.
Take Me stood in the square again, just as he had that first day, and said, “Take me.”
But this time, no one moved.
Except her.
She stepped forward, placed a hand on his chest, and said, “I already did.”
They left that night. No goodbyes. No explanations. Just the sound of footsteps fading into the forest.
Years passed.
Stories spread of a couple who lived deep in the woods, who healed wounded animals and sang to the moon. Some said the sad girl had become a witch. Others said she was a saint. But no one dared enter the forest to find out.
One day, a child wandered too far and got lost. He stumbled upon a cottage made of stone and cedar, surrounded by lavender. A woman with silver hair and eyes like the sky took him in, fed him soup, and told him stories of love and loss, of fire and forgiveness.
When he asked her name, she smiled and said, “I was once the sad girl.”
“And the man?” he asked.
She pointed to the garden, where an old man knelt, planting seeds.
“That’s Take Me,” she said. “He gave me everything when I had nothing. And I took him, just as he asked.”
The boy returned to the village with tales of magic and kindness. And though no one ever saw the couple again, the legend of the sad girl and the man who said “Take me” lived on.
It became a story told at weddings, whispered to children, carved into the bark of trees.
Because sometimes, the saddest hearts find the bravest love.
