"Not yet, Elena," he would say when she spoke of marriage. "First, I must finish the new barn. First, I must save enough for the winter cattle. We have time. We are young."
Andrei turned his clouded eyes toward the boy. His voice was a dry rasp, like autumn leaves. Cine-n tinerete n-o iubit destul
Then came the Great Flood. The river reclaimed the valley in a single, violent night. Andrei spent those hours saving his livestock, hauling sacks of grain to higher ground, obsessed with preserving his "future." When he finally fought his way to Elena’s house, the porch was gone, and the girl who had waited for a "later" that never came had been swept away by the current. "Not yet, Elena," he would say when she spoke of marriage
The village of Valea Morii didn’t have many secrets, but it had Andrei—a man whose silence was as heavy as the millstones he once turned. Now eighty, he spent his evenings on a weathered wooden bench, watching the young people dance at the village festival. We have time
In 1964, Andrei had been the strongest lad in the valley. He loved Elena, the blacksmith’s daughter, with a quiet intensity that felt like a slow-burning ember. They had plans—a house near the birch forest, a life built on calloused hands and shared bread. But Andrei was a man of "later." He believed that love was a prize you earned only after you had secured the world.
Andrei leaned back, closing his eyes. He hummed the rest of the song to himself—the part about how the heart, once frozen by "later," never truly thaws. He hadn't loved enough when the sun was high, and now, in the long shadow of his life, he finally understood: youth isn't for preparing to live; it is for living.
The villagers had a saying, an old song lyric that followed him like a shadow: "Cine-n tinerețe n-o iubit destul..." (He who in youth did not love enough...).
