At 78, I traded everything I had. My apartment, my old pickup truck, even my collection of vinyl records.
Elizabeth’s letter arrived without notifications, tucked between bills and advertisements, as if it had no idea how much power it held.
“I’ve been thinking of you.”
That was all it said. I read it three times before I allowed myself to breathe.
A letter. From Elizabeth.
“I wonder if you ever think about those days. About how we laughed, about the way you held my hand that night at the lake. I do. I always have.”
We started writing back and forth.
And then, one day, she sent her address. That was it. That was all I needed.
I sold everything. Booked a one-way ticket.
The plane uplifted into the air, and I closed my eyes, picturing her waiting for me.
However, a strange pressure in my chest made me breathe harder.
“Sir, are you alright?”
I tried to answer, but the words wouldn’t come.
When I woke up, the world had changed. A hospital.
A woman sat next to the bed, holding my hand. “You scared us. I’m Lauren, your nurse,” she said gently.
I swallowed, my throat dry. “Where am I?”
“Bozeman General Hospital. Your plane had to make an emergency landing. You had a mild heart atta:ck, but you’re stable now. The doctors say you can’t fly for a while.”
I let my head fall back against the pillow. My dreams had to wait.
I exhaled sharply. “I don’t strike myself as someone who sits around waiting to di:e, either.”
She didn’t flinch, didn’t scold me. She just studied me carefully. “You were going to see someone, weren’t you?”
“Elizabeth. After forty years of silence, she asked me to come.”
“Forty years is a long time.”
“Too long.”
She didn’t pry further, just sat beside my bed, resting her hands in her lap.
“You remind me of someone,” I said after a pause.
“Yeah? Who?”
“Myself. A long time ago.”
Something glimmered in her expression—something unspoken.
On my last morning at the hospital, she walked into my room with a set of car keys.
I frowned. “What’s this?”
“A way out.” I searched her face for hesitation. I found none.
“You don’t even know me,” I said.
“I know enough. And I want to help you.”
We drove for hours. When we arrived at the address in the letter, it wasn’t a house. It was a nursing home.
Lauren turned off the engine. “This is it?”
“This is the address she gave me.”
And then, I saw her. Not Elizabeth. Her sister.
“Susan,” I breathed.
She smiled sadly. “James. You came.”
“You let me believe Elizabeth was waiting for me. You let me think—” My voice cracked. “Why?”
“I found your letters,” she whispered. “Elizabeth never stopped reading them. Even after all those years.”
“She passed away last year. I lost the house, too.”
At Elizabeth’s grave, I whispered, “I made it. I’m here.”
But I was too late.
Maybe it was time to stop.
Lauren stayed. She took a job at the local nursing home. I bought back Elizabeth’s house.
One evening, Susan hesitated as I invited her to stay.
“James, I… I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not,” I said simply. “You just wanted a home. So did I.”
Then Lauren moved in, too. Every evening, we sat in the garden, playing chess, watching the sky shift colors.
