“Do you still love me?”
The old man asked his wife, staring into the horizon.
The years, etched like maps upon their faces, melted away in that moment.
“More than ever,” she whispered.
“But then,” he pressed, “did you love me less before?”
She chuckled. “You’re wiser now.”
“Should I go back and tell my younger self,” he rumbled, a playful glint in his eyes, “that you loved me less then?”
“No, my love. It’s not that I loved you less. You see, my love for you isn’t a finite well that runs dry. It’s a boundless ocean, vast and ever-growing.”