At 78, everything I owned found its way into someone else’s hands. My apartment, the rusting pickup truck, even my prized collection of vinyl records—all gone. Things no longer mattered.

It started with a letter.

A single sheet of paper, tucked between bills and advertisements as if it held no real weight. But when I saw her name—Elizabeth—my breath caught.

“I’ve been thinking of you.”

Five words that yanked me back through time.

I read it three times before my hands stopped shaking. The past had always felt distant, like a song playing softly in another room. But now, it was knocking at my door.

Her letters became my world. We wrote about everything—her garden, my restless nights, the way she still played the piano despite her hands aching more than they used to. We laughed over memories of her terrible coffee, the kind I used to tease her about but secretly loved.

Then, one day, she sent her address. And that was it. I sold my life away for a one-way ticket.

 

 

“James, I… I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not,” I said simply. “You just wanted a home. So did I.”

She wiped at her eyes, nodding.

Lauren moved in, too.

We sat in the garden every evening, playing chess, watching the sky change colors. For the first time in years, I felt at peace.

Life had rewritten my plans and forced me to make mistakes. But in the end, one journey gave me far more than I had ever hoped for. All I had to do was let go and trust fate.