It was the night of the Firefly Festival, a celebration of light and dreams. Lanterns floated in the air like stars that had descended to dance with mortals. Dianne wore a long, soft gown of pale lavender, her hair woven with silver threads. Jimma held her hand, leading her to their spot beneath the willow.
There, they lay on a blanket, sharing strawberries and memories. Fireflies circled them, lighting their faces with a golden glow. They laughed about their first dance, argued playfully about baby names, and counted the wishes they'd made that had already come true.
"I want us to sleep here tonight," Dianne whispered, curling into him.
He kissed her forehead. "Then here we'll stay. Let the stars keep us company."
The wind hushed. The fireflies dimmed. The air around them felt heavier, as if the world was holding its breath. They fell asleep under the whispering willow.
By morning, they hadn't moved.
Villagers found them, peaceful, hand in hand, their faces soft with lingering smiles. There was no sign of pain — only serenity, like they had been called away by something gentle.
The village mourned deeply. A joint funeral was held beneath the willow. They were buried in a single wooden casket lined with the very blanket they slept on. Flowers blanketed the earth above them.
Inscribed on the gravestone: Together in life. Together beyond.