“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.
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.
