When I was young, I went looking for gold in California. I never found enough to make me rich, but I did discover a beautiful place called "the Stanislau." It was like Heaven on Earth, with bright green hills and deep forests.
Years before, other gold seekers had built a town there, but the gold ran out, and the people left. When I arrived, the town was empty. Grass grew in the streets, and wild rose bushes covered the little houses. The only sound was the hum of insects.
Then I saw a man smiling at me in front of one house. Unlike the others, it was well-kept, with a garden of flowers and white curtains at the windows. He invited me inside.
After weeks in rough mining camps, the interior felt like a miracle. A bright rug, pictures on the walls, seashells, books, and vases of flowers filled the cozy room. "It is all her work," the man said, his eyes shining. "Everything here has felt the touch of her hand."
He straightened a picture on the wall with a gentle pat. "She always does that," he explained. As we talked, he guided my gaze to a corner near the fireplace, where a small picture sat on a black shelf. It showed the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
"That's her," he said, his voice full of love. "She's nineteen. She's away visiting her parents and will be back Saturday evening." I felt regret, saying I'd be gone by then. He held her picture before me. "Tell her to her face you chose not to stay."
Looking at the picture again, I changed my mind and decided to stay. His name was Henry.
We talked mostly about her. The next evening, an old miner named Tom visited. "Any news?" he asked. Henry produced a yellowed letter from his pocket, full of loving messages. As Henry read it, Tom began to cry. "I always cry when I hear from her," Tom said.
The same happened with another visitor, Joe, on Friday. By Saturday, Henry grew anxious, frequently checking the time. As sunset approached, Tom and Joe returned with guitars, flowers, and whiskey. They played lively songs and kept giving Henry drinks.
Near midnight, two glasses remained. When I reached for one, Tom stopped me. "Take the other one!" he whispered. He gave the last glass to Henry, who drank it as the clock struck twelve. Henry turned pale, said he felt sick, and fell into a deep sleep almost instantly.
His friends carried him to bed. As they prepared to leave, I stopped them. "She won't know me. I'm a stranger."
They exchanged a look. "His wife has been dead for nineteen years," Tom said quietly.
"Dead?"
"She was captured by Indians on her way home one June, not six months after their marriage. No one saw her again. Henry lost his mind. He believes she's still alive, away visiting her parents, and will return each June."
"We come every June," Joe added, picking up his hat and guitar. "We let him read the old letter, and on the Saturday she was due back, we stay with him. We put a sleeping drug in his drink so he sleeps through the night. Then he's calm for another year. The first year, twenty-seven of us came. Now, it's just the two of us left."
They walked out the door and disappeared into the darkness of the Stanislau.