The Ending

By Carol-Versannie

 

“Lily, the daughter of the caretaker, was literally running off her feet; that said, none of her preparations had readied her for the path she eventually ended up on.” I paused as I contemplated this last sentence of your writing, “I enjoyed reading this very much overall. But…where is Lily heading to on the path? You didn’t specify that at the end.”

“Honestly…” Your eyes turned to my face as a smile rippled at the corner of your lips, “It’s how I planned to end the story.”

“But… every story needs a fulfilled ending, a sense of closure. Pardon me if this comparison appears to be stretched: it’s almost comparable to our own lives—the ending has to be contemplated, well planned in advance.”

“Alright, Philosopher,” you teased as the grin on your face widened, “But unfortunately, I will disagree with you.”

Turning toward the desk, you pulled out a candle from the drawer. “You have a lighter?”

“No, I don’t smoke.”

“Well, you missed a great happiness in life then.” Your face was still beaming as you reached for the pocket of your leather jacket hanging on the stand.

“I don’t need that to alleviate me from the stress in reality. My future is well-planned, so there’s no need for me to fuss about any potential chaos to throw me off balance.”

You kept silent, and handed me the candle while adeptly pulled out a cigarette from your pocket, “Can you help me light it up, please?”

I lit up the candle and unwillingly did the same for your cigarette, “You need to quit this one day. It will kill you.”

“You make it sound like reality hasn’t tortured me enough yet. Trust me…with its companion, I will surely live longer.” You retorted, taking a deep, almost desperate drag, and replied while puffing deliberately to my face, “Well, anyways…my dear philosopher, would you please tell me what will the ending of this candle be?”

I choked as the smoke slid into my nostrils and soon spread its bitterness to my throat. I rushed to open the window to relieve this intense discomfort that I strongly disliked, “I can't breathe anymore!”

I still remember the way you looked at me, almost with empathy within your eyes just as how I looked at you when you smoked as you indulged tendrils of smoke to swirl around you; it was this moment that I felt we were so different yet so similar.

I stuck my head outside of the window, breathing the fresh air greedily, the same way as you suck your cigarette, “Going back to your question. Well, when there is not enough wax oil to be burned, the fire will eventually extinguish. That’s the ending of this candle.”

“But I say it’s totally wrong,” The tension on your countenance softened more after another deep inhalation, “I know you are very much a perfectionist, but sorry, that’s not how life works.”

“What do you mean? I…”

Before I finished my sentence, you leaned forward and blew off the candle, “Well, that’s how it ends.”

A tiny wisp of smoke curled and drifted upward, mingling with the air that had already been contaminated by the smoke, as you extinguished the candle. The fire was no longer flickering on top of the candle, yet I still sensed my heart tightened up, trembled.

We haven’t talked much until the arrival of spring, when you suggested a walk to watch the cherry blossoms. There was no longer any trace of the melancholy winter—nothing was buried underneath the white sheet of snow anymore. Even the air became gentler and softer, filled with the subtle promise of renewal. The trees resting solemnly in deep slumber previously were now embellished with green leaves on their branches. On the tip of the branches, pink and white blossoms bloomed. The world was alive, pulsing with energy, and there we were, standing beneath it all, in the soft hum of life awakening.

“Do you know why I love cherry blossoms?” You stopped in front of a cherry blossom tree and turned to me.

“I don’t know…” Countless plausible answers flashed over my mind, yet I still hesitated in my decision, worrying my response would disappoint you in any way.

Luckily, you soon relieved me from this stress as you picked up a fallen petal and replied, “It’s gorgeous, but its bloom only lasts for less than a week.”

“Wow…” I also picked up a petal that rested on the trunk, “Beauty resides in fleeting seconds I guess.”

“I know!” You laughed, “That’s why I love this flower. It perishes soon, yet shows extreme beauty when it blooms.”

“What’s the ending of the cherry blossom?” You teased with a grinning smile.

“Oh, not that question again,” I smiled along with you, “I believe the ending of the cherry blossom is when its petals reach the ground. You can’t prove me wrong on this one, can you?”

You contemplated for a while, “Once again, I disagree. But I do need more time to think about this one.”

I laughed, “I will give you the deadline by next spring. You better come up with a reasonable argument to convince me before we return here next spring.”

Even at this point, the same smile remained lingering on your face, “But I won’t be here next year.”

“What?”

“My family decided to move away, so I will be leaving next week. It’s been a great year knowing you.”

“That's...that's so sudden. I mean…will you come back sometime in the future?”

“I don’t know.”

Never would I expect that afternoon was my last time encountering you, as you remained so undisturbed as you always did—there wasn’t a trace of sorrow flashed over your cheerful face, at least not what I was capable of perceiving. After you left, everything remained the same, which I almost found intolerable and irritating: all those trees continued experiencing the blooming and withering as they always do, the buildings where we walked past were still constructed the same way, and people continued chatting and laughing as if nothing had happened.

After a year since you departed, I still couldn’t accept that the story between us had ended there. Yet, despite my longing to change it, I found myself incapable and powerless to alter reality in any possible way. I waited; with an emptiness that accumulated within my heart every passing hour, ultimately gnawed at me; for the arrival of spring.

 

One day as I grabbed the latest issue of the magazine—the one you often submit your works to—from a store near my apartment, the sun shone brightly, and the cherry blossoms were blooming again, just as they had then. It was daunting to realize a year had elapsed almost within a glimpse. As I feared walking near the path that we walked on last year to watch the cherry blossoms would only revive those memories that I somehow wished to suppress, I rushed back to the sanctuary of my apartment.

The view outside seemed inviting, so I decided to read the magazine sitting on my balcony. As I opened the magazine, a gust of wind swept through all of a sudden. A few seconds later, I found a petal of cherry blossom resting peacefully on the page as I looked down. For a moment, time seemed to freeze despite the wind still rumbling near my ears. The petal, so fragile and fleeting, seemed to be an unspoken answer you delivered to me on time: the story of the cherry blossom remained unfinished even when the petal had already fallen to the ground.

You were right, there are indeed many possibilities regarding the ending of every story; you were right, neither of us could ever have an absolute control toward our future; you were right, I had underestimated the power of ending.

It was never a cease to a moment; rather, it was a button to embark a new journey, and to press down that button with courage, everyone was doomed to involuntarily drown into the whirlwind of their memories, including me. A profound revelation dawned upon me: life’s all but a loop, and the meaning resided within those moments of stillness inside this everlasting circle.

I smiled softly, and gingerly picked up the petal lying on the page. As my fingers brushed against it, my eyes inadvertently drifted down to the magazine, and there, amidst the words and images, I saw your name. It stood there, printed clearly and unmistakably. My heart lost a beat, caught between the fragility of the petal in my palm and the weight of those characters that represented your presence on the page.

Of course, I meticulously read that story you published, and coincidentally, it appeared to be the one you showed to me a long time ago. This time, a smile emerged on my face, lingering there until I read the last sentence of your published story, “Lily, the caretaker’s daughter, was literally running off her feet; that said, none of her preparations had readied her for the path she eventually ended up on.”

 

Carol-Versannie from US has written two books, and she is a finalist in the National Poetry Contest. Her work has been published in several online publications. She is passionate about exploring philosophical ideas through writing. As a feminist, she uses her platform to discuss gender equality, identity, and the complexities of human experience, all while challenging conventional perspectives.