s sat at the desk, the manuscript still open to the pages he had revisited the night before. His thoughts lingered
. The attic had been calling to him for days, its contents a treasure trove of forgotten keepsakes.
ust. Sunbeams cut through the small, cobwebbed window, illuminating the motes that danced i
aded and curled at the edges, and stacks of books he had long forgotten. But it was in a small wo
g away like the unraveling of a long-held secret. The letter
hese letters in decades. Why had he put them away? Had he even opened all of them?
r El
e plans we made. Do you remember how we said we'd travel the world together? I still believe we coul
read it once and tucked it away, promising himself he would respond. But lif
his heart heavy with a m
li
right. Maybe I'll come to visit soon-we could sit under the oak tree a
letter after letter, each one a snapshot of Thomas's life as it unfolded. They spoke of trave
was dated years
li
oves on. I just wanted you to know I never forgot those days under the oak tree. They were som
ttic felt deafening. He had let the years slip by, the connection
before him. Outside, a soft breeze rustled the trees, carrying with i
He pressed the final letter to his chest, closing his eyes. Perhaps there was no