Between Evelyn and Tristan as romantic.
The moorlands were alive with the wild dance of the winds, as if the world itself were holding its breath for Tristan’s return. It had been many years since he had walked among the heather and gorse of his childhood, years of which the villagers spoke in hushed whispers of reverence and scandal. The poet's son, they had called him, for his father had been a man whose words could summon tears and laughter with the ease of the breeze that reshuffled the landscape of the moor.
Evelyn’s hands were caked with soil, a testament to her morning's endeavor to transplant a rare wildflower to her family's garden. The news of Tristan's impending return traveled swiftly on the tongues of the bustling townsfolk, nearing her ears as the chatter of sparrows. She had not laid eyes on him since they were both nought but children chasing the scarecrows at the edge of the rye fields, yet the prospect of his return sent an inexplicable flurry through her chest.
As sunset embraced the village, a lone figure emerged from the direction of the train station, his silhouette etched against the flaming sky, marked by an ease that set him apart from the toil-worn bodies of the villagers. He carried himself as though not quite touching the earth, as if he were part of some otherworldly tapestry that was momentarily overlapping with their own. Evelyn watched him from her garden gate, noting the way his gaze swept across the familiar landscape, holding a mixture of melancholy and wonder.
Tristan’s homecoming was not met with fanfare or elaborate welcomes. His mother's frail health was his compass, pulling him back to the cradle of his origin. The reunion with his family was quiet, a thing of muted joy and the shadow of past grievances. In the solitude of his old chamber, with walls that whispered the ambitions of a youth long passed, Tristan unpacked not only his meager belongings but also the heavy canvas of memories he had carted with him throughout his travels.
The wind carried the scent of rain and nostalgia as night unfurled its starlit canopy. In the heart of the village, beneath the unassuming thatched roofs, the two souls rested, unknown to them that their dreams would soon entangle like the climbing ivy on the ancient stone walls.
Evelyn lay in her bed, her mind painting the forthcoming days with brilliant strokes of curiosity about the poet’s son. Tristan set quill to parchment, releasing the indigo ink in strokes as free and wandering as the life he had led. The moon, a silent witness, continued its eternal ascent, indifferent to the countless tales of return and longing it illuminated below.