Metaphorically, we called it spring.

Do you know how longing reaches its peak?
When you continue, despite the arrows being aimed at you professionally... arrows coming from the paths of no return, then winds catch you, digging between your folds and writing down the tales of the thorny autumn... and you, despite this, the hope of meeting each other sweeps through your entire being.
In our village, you will find some people talking about spring as it was told in volumes of legends, and some of them drew a picture of it, lived with it and in its memory, and invented a lie to celebrate it with the lighting of the candles on the April cake.
It is a cake made once a year, in April, and has remained sacred.
How do we celebrate a spring that is only mentioned in volumes of myths?!
Then I decided to be silent, but my pen did not stop yet.
Between my letters I sense spring, perhaps I have done as they did, I also invented a lie so that I could see in the silence of the letters what those who came before had lost sight of in their search.
Until I decided to search for him, but with a new identity and deeper convictions, so that I would be able to bear the hardship of searching for him.
About whom?!
The sheikh of our tribe; with him the spring we lost our way to will be completed, yes it will be completed at the top of that mountain.
In the midst of your search, you lose your dearest person and find yourself alone to complete it.
Maybe I found it among my letters then, and knew where it was, or my subconscious was mocking me.
But all I want to say, in my right mind, is: Honestly, I won't give up my new identity.