Love in the Cornhusk: A Short Story’s Unfinished Ending

As the sun began to lower in the sky, Tinang found herself shuffling with renewed anticipation through the brush towards Señora’s house. The rustling of tall corn stalks sang a chorus in the wind, the crunching leaf fragments under her worn shoes added to the melody of the setting day. She was unlettered, meek in her grandeur, and yet, seeking pieces of her past love, now embedded within cornhusks of painful memories. As she entered the house, the journey of her hidden love story sat encased in a yellowed envelope in her hand — a reminder of her forlorn times, her closed chapters. Señora sat upon her rocking chair knitting, the click-clack of the needles mixing with the chirping cicadas outside. Tinang’s eyes fell towards the envelope, the unknown words penned by the man she once loved dogged her heart like a stubborn specter. “Señora,” she began, her voice a mere quiver. “I need to know, the...the rest of it.” She held up the envelope, the corners worn and wilting, much like her heart. As the old woman’s eyes met Tinang’s, there was a moment of profound understanding. The unsaid words, the unshed tears, the echo of love that once was, all found their essence in the single white paper’s confines. Cautiously opening the yellowed envelope, Señora started reading the contents aloud, her voice smooth as she swam along the swells and waves of the penned emotions. The words, the phrases, the complimentary closings, were all heartfelt yet hesitant, strong yet gentle. They were the tokens of a love that was conceived in the innocence of youth and molded by the passage of turbulent years. Tinang found herself revisiting the essence of Amado. Behind her veiled eyes, he existed once again — lively, radiant, and honest. His late-night serenades by the fishponds, the secret rendezvous amidst the cornfields, his sunburnt face dancing with delight in the moonlight, every memory was flooding back in its full intensity. His love served as her refuge, his hope as her fortitude. Somehow, she knew, the letter was the firm bridge that connected her to him. Yet her heart yearned for closure—the eyelid at the end of the day, the wave that kissed the shore goodbye, the sigh after a sweet symphony. She found herself asking Señora, "Does it end here? Is there more?” Señora, aware of the significance of her next words, took a deep breath and locked eyes with Tinang. She said, "My dear, love stories have a way of writing their own destinies. Their beginnings might differ, their journeys might be ever-changing wind paths, their endings might vary. But in essence, they're the same—the throbbing heart, the soaring spirits, the aching distance, the lingering hope. This was your love story with Amado. It didn't end abruptly, nor did it fade into oblivion. It simply continued in a different rhythm, in another melody, through untraveled routes.” She paused then added, “As for the letter, it’s the remnant of your past affection, yet it is just a part of the journey. Your story with Amado began much before the exchange of penned thoughts and will continue even beyond. It's not the destination; it's the trail you both tread. Whether bound by words or depictions, it was your story in the end. And this story, Tinang, will stay with you forever, sealed in the quiet whispers of the wind, in the rustle of the cornhusks, and the stillness of the moonlit nights.” As the dusk unfurled its purple hue on the horizon, Tinang found her closure in the blending colors. A sense of peace encased her, whispering in her ear that true love wasn't about ownership, but acceptance. Her love for Amado was like a flaming sunset — vibrant, ablaze, yet slipping into twilight with every passing moment, leaving behind a darkened sky colored with splashes of reminiscences.