She would be there waiting for me each day. I did not want to disappoint her, let her down. She had been through enough disappointments for one life already. I did not want to be another one of those men whose dark shadows haunted her dreams and left her days hollow and empty.
I knew, though, that one day all my stories would be gone. One day, I would have no tale to tell her. One morning, she would come to me, expecting some tale of the woman she knew was her and how – somehow – she overcame the life she seemed destined to live, to break free into some new world where everything was possible once again.
This morning, though, I was reluctant to go to her. My bag of stories was empty. I had nothing left to give her. When I stared off, too, into that distance where the stories come from, there was nothing there to tell her, just the wind blown trees, all winter bare and cold.
When we met, she could see there were no more stories in my eyes, that I did not have any new tale to tell, so she sat me down under our favourite tree and told me the story of the storyteller who had no stories left to tell.
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