This is not a short story in the usual sense. There is no plot here, only a place, and what remains in it. An exploration of memory. And the weight of memory.

The water ran through his fingers, cold and crisp. Clean & refreshing. A chill most pleasant. The stream was only a few inches deep, though it ran strong this time of year. A silvery glimmer on its surface in the morning light. A quick splash of water to his face, and he was ready to face the day. In the distance, her voice echoed.

The wind was brisk this morning, as it often was in the spring. The snow-peaked mountain stood high above, an ancient pinnacle that had endured years beyond count. The mountains and hills were old here, among the oldest in the world. It had seen ice age after ice age, it had seen the continents change around it, it had seen lives start and lives end. Steeped in memory, nothing seemed to truly fade here.

He looked around, and felt almost at home. He could walk these trails without looking. Every stone outcrop, every bend in the stream, every turn in the paths around him, he knew this place. His life had changed among these old stones. The best moments of his life were between these trees. Once upon a time, this was his favourite place in the world.

A deep breath, and then back to the tent. He lit a small fire, it was time for breakfast.

He fried bacon in the small cast iron skillet, extra crispy, just the way she liked it. She always gave him the most beautiful smile if he got the bacon just right. The smell of smoke, oak and pine, filled the air, as the distinct scent of the bacon wafted out, filling the small valley with the most delicious smells.

Bacon in the woods is normally a rare treat, but this particular heaven is only a few miles from a small country store, ensuring a steady stream of supplies and fresh food. This is one of the reasons he had brought her here so many times.

The original plan was to only stay here for one night, though now that he was here, now that he was immersed in the memories that this place would never let go of, he couldn’t leave just yet. There is more to see. More to remember. This place is too important to leave so soon. Besides, he’s not been to the waterfall yet.

Forty feet isn’t especially tall for a waterfall, though for a waterfall fed by a mountain stream, it’s perfect. Twenty feet wide, the water tumbled down the rocks, bouncing from stone to stone, burbling and bubbling as it splashed down. The stones, worn smooth over countless generations, were covered in moss, thick and green. Set in a narrow valley, the waterfall was as idyllic as any place on earth.

The water landed in a shallow & wide pool, dotted with ancient stones, perfect for sitting. Stones that have, from their own comfortable seat, seen stars be born, live, and die. He fell in love with her at the foot of this waterfall; sitting together among these stones, chatting and laughing, she went from his friend, to his world. This is the place that everything changed.

He picked a large stone in the midst of the shallow pool, only inches deep, and sat, and listened. The water sang its song, peaceful, enduring, and unending.

Lunch was simple, sandwiches, tuna salad. The fire had long since gone out, and there was no need to build a new one – all that was left was a faint smell of smoke lingering. As he ate, he sat back and took a deep breath; the smoke, the tuna, and a hint of the sweet floral fragrance of her perfume. He gave her that perfume, a gift, not because of a birthday, holiday, or special event, but just because – because he wanted to see her smile.

He cleaned the campsite, gathered more firewood, straightened up the small tent. He pumped up the air mattress – she hated sleeping on the ground. He made sure that the tent was ready for the evening, and the night ahead.

He sat and read, a book they both loved. From the corner of his eye, he saw her getting water from the creek. He listened to the birds. To the water. To the wind in the leaves. Eventually, he was lulled into a gentle sleep, book still in his hand. Hours passed.

The evening had set in, the sun had already slipped below the horizon. There was no moon to be seen. He grabbed the kindling that he collected earlier, twigs, leaves, pinecones, and a collection of papers that he didn’t need anymore. There was a chill in the air and the evening quickly became darker and darker.

With everything in place, he slowly started the fire. Feeding papers into the flames one by one to build the fire. He slowly looked at each piece of paper in his hands, studying them closely, before hesitantly feeding each to the flames. Handwritten notes. Photos, each with the same smiling face. Paperwork for a house. A marriage license. The flames grew as each piece of paper was consumed. Wisps of smoke filled the narrow valley.

Once the fire was ready, the cast iron skillet was back on the fire. Liver and onions. The smell hung in the air. This was her favourite meal. A dish he didn’t care for, but he would eat it for her. He loved cooking for her, though this was the first time he made this dish, and likely the last.

He sat, alone, watching the fire burn. Surrounded by the trees that served as witness to the start of their life together. Surrounded by the stones that wouldn’t let him forget. Surrounded by the memories of a life that no longer exists.

He scooted closer to the fire as the night grew deeper, the chill had reached his very soul, but there was no warmth from the fire. There was no warmth left in the world.