Short, but I felt it needed to be a stand-alone chapter.

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                It took forty years and two unsuccessful marriages.  I suppose I had never been cut out to love women—to love anyone—the way I had loved Chanyeol.

                A new weeping willow had been planted a little ways from the original, leaves spilling over in a familiarly light denseness.  It struck me as a little strange when I saw a man about my age beneath the tree one day, seemingly engrossed in gazing at it as he rubbed a leaf between his fingers gently.  It made me uneasy to see that someone else had some kind of connection to the willow as I had.  Or perhaps he was simply a retired botanist enjoying nature.

                “Chanyeol?” I breathed when I was a few feet away, the resemblance too strong to miss.  My lungs rejected oxygen, pushed my heartbeat to the brink.

                Forty years.

                He turned and stared at me until his eyebrows began to furrow.  And I knew it was him.  “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

                I looked different—that was a given, but he had to recognize me, my brows still slanted in an angry fashion, my eyes retaining their shape over the years.  He just had to.  “Kris.  It’s me, Kris.”

                His expression stayed blank as he blinked at me slowly, and he shook his head slightly.  “Sorry, I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

                I stood speechlessly, rather irked by this charade he was playing.  “We were together.”  His brows pulled closer together.  “In our early twenties.  We dated for five years.  I mean, it’s been quite a while, but I… I thought you would remember.”  My voice was rough, hoarse.

                He shook his head again, but a flash of uncertainty washed over his face.  “You look familiar, but I really—I really don’t know who you are.”

                “Chanyeol!” a voice called out before I could respond, and a woman I estimated to be in her mid or late fifties rushed up to him.  “You can’t wander off like that; I’ve been worried sick looking for you.”  She placed a hand on his forearm, but he pulled away.

                “You don’t have to worry about me,” he snapped.  “It’s not like I’m dying.  I don’t need you to dog me all the time.”

                That’s when I noticed the slim band on Chanyeol’s ring finger, and I glanced over at the woman’s hand, quickly piecing together that she was his wife.  It didn’t surprise me, but his inability to recall our years together still created a fuss in my chest.

                She looked at me then, her eyes opening just a bit wider, and something caught in her voice as she let out a low gasp, something of an “oh.”  I bowed my head in a sort of nod and gave Chanyeol another glimpse before backing away to walk off.

                “Come on,” I heard her say.  “Let’s go home.”

                “Is the car nearby?  My feet are killing me.”