Chapter 7: VII

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden glow over the meadow. Young Arthur had invited Miss Matilda to join him on a picnic. She, with her injured leg, leaned on his arm as they strolled through the grass, the scent of wildflowers enveloping them.

Arthur had packed a wicker basket with crusty bread, cheese,  strawberries and some grape juice. He spread out a checkered blanket under the shade of an ancient oak tree, and they settled down. Miss Matilda winced as she lowered herself onto the blanket, her leg still tender from the fall.

"Thank you for inviting me," she said, her voice soft and melodic. "I've been cooped up indoors for days."

Arthur smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I know you have and I myself have been soo busy herding the animals and creating ointments to sell at the market I apologize for not being around"

"Not at all!"

"It truly is my pleasure having you here Miss Matilda.I don't have many friends myself and to be honest even just seeing you makes my heart smile"

They shared stories—the kind that made them laugh until tears welled up. Arthur recounted his childhood escapades, and Miss Matilda confessed her secret love for writing. They whispered their dreams, their fears, and the quiet longings of their hearts.

As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows, Arthur plucked a wildflower from the grass. "For you," he said, tucking it behind Miss Matilda's ear. She blushed, her cheeks matching the delicate petals. She certainly wasn't used to someone treating her this way. She was at this point overwhelmed with emotion.

"Arthur," she began, her gaze searching his. "I've enjoyed today more than I can express."

He leaned closer, their breaths mingling. "Miss Matilda," he murmured, "there's something I've been meaning to tell you."

Her heart fluttered. "Y-Yes?" Matilda shuttered

"I love the way you laugh," he said. "And the way your eyes light up when you talk about books. And—" He hesitated, then took her hand. "I love you. This week that you've been in my presence has been the best week of my life and you know when you came you barely said a word but now I must swear, I don't know if you'd ever stop!"

Miss Matilda's eyes widened, and then she laughed which echoed through the meadow. "Arthur," she said, "Thank you" she whispered.

Arthur's words hung in the air like dew-kissed petals—I love you.

But Miss Matilda was no stranger to solitude. She had spent her life tucked away in her cozy cottage, surrounded by her writing and writing books and the whisper of the wind through the trees that often sent inspiration her way. Her only companions were the characters in those pages—their laughter, their tears, their adventures.

Arthur's love was a revelation—a sunbeam breaking through the dense forest of her existence. She had never known how to respond to such vulnerability. Her heart fluttered like a fragile moth, drawn to the flame of his affection.

"Miss Matilda," Arthur said softly, "are you all right?"

She tore her watery gaze from the distant hills and met his eyes. They were kind, patient—the eyes of a man who had seen the world beyond the meadow. "Arthur," she began, her voice barely a whisper, "I've never been loved like this."

He shifted closer, his warmth seeping through the layers of her reserve. "You don't have to say anything," he said. "Just feel it."

But Miss Matilda was a woman of words. She had penned countless storys, and crafted intricate sentences, and yet, faced with this raw emotion, she stumbled. How could she express the ache in her chest,the longing that had taken root?

"I've been alone," she confessed. "Books were my companions, and the rustle of leaves my solace. Love was a distant dream, like a forgotten melody."

Arthur reached for her hand, his touch gentle. "And now?"

"Now," she said, her voice steadier, "now it's as if the world has shifted. You've brought sunlight to my world, laughter to my silence."

He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. "Miss Matilda, you're not alone anymore. We'll write our own story—one filled with picnics, secrets, and stolen kisses."

And so, in that meadow, as the stars blinked into existence, Miss Matilda found her voice. "Arthur," she said, "I love you too."

And as their lips met—a promise sealed amidst the rustling leaves—she realized that sometimes, the most beautiful stories were written not in ink, but in the beating of two hearts...