“There’s something you should see,” she says, her voice unsteady. “Wait here?”
I nod and she leaves the room. I begin to pace as I hear her footsteps on the stairs. My heart is at war inside my chest. Aching for her to be near me, but also filled with anger and regret. I let out a long slow breath trying my best to stay collected.
When she returns, she’s holding the letter Grace had left behind. My name is written across the front in her handwriting—elegant, familiar, a relic of another lifetime.
“I wrote this when Sebastian was fifteen,” she says softly. “I tried to send it to you. I poured every truth I’d hidden into this letter. But a month later, it came back to me.” Her breath trembles. “The ranch’s address crossed out and mine in it’s place. It came back to me unopened. I thought you had moved on.”
She extends it toward me. I take it from her carefully, afraid the paper might crumble under my fingers. Opening the letter, I strain to stop my hands from shaking. The handwriting wavers, uneven in places, as if written through tears.
My dearest Marcel,
I don’t knowif this letter will ever reach you. Perhaps it’s foolish to send it after all this time, but silence has become tooheavy to bear. It sits on my chest like a stone, pressing against every breath, every heartbeat that still dares to remember you.
I’ve spent so many years pretending I’ve forgotten—that what we had was a season, a beautiful foolishness I outgrew. But the truth is simpler, I never stopped loving you. I never could. You live in every quiet moment of my days, in the sound of rain against glass, in the smell of hay carried on a summer wind. Sometimes I catch myself turning, thinking I’ve heard your voice, and the ache that follows feels endless.
There’s something you need to know—something I should have said before now. After I left, I found out I was pregnant. I wanted to tell you, God knows I did. But fear ruled every part of my world then—fear of my parents, of their shame, of the chaos that would follow. And so I said nothing. I thought I was protecting you, protecting myself. Instead, I stole from you what was yours.
His name is Sebastian. He has your eyes, Marcel. The same warmth, the same way of seeing goodness where others see nothing at all. When I look at him, I see echoes of you. The tilt of your smile, the calm in your hands. Sometimes, when he laughs, I swear it’s you filling the room.
I’m not asking for forgiveness; I know how little I deserve it. But I needed you to know the truth—that somewhere in this world there’s a boy who carries your name in his heart. That every day I live with both the wonder and the sorrow of what we created.
I’m so sorry I didn’t make a way for us. I only wish I’d been brave enough to stay.
If there’s still a place for me, even just a corner of your heart, write me. Call for me. Tell me I can follow the compass north.
Forever yours,
Clara
My throat tightensaround the words. I trace her signature with a trembling thumb.
“I thought you didn’t want it—me and Sebastian” she says, her voice barely more than breath. “When it came back unopened, I thought that maybe you’d married, built a life, found peace. It was easier to believe that than to hope you were still waiting.”
I look up at her, the letter heavy in my hand. “Clara,” I whisper, the ache of it cutting deep, “I was waiting. Every damn day. You sent this into the world, and it tried to find me. You just didn’t send it in time. I was already passed.”
Tears spill over her lashes, her voice breaking open. “Then I failed you twice. Once by leaving, and again by not telling you the truth sooner.”
I fold the letter carefully, pressing it against my chest. “You tried,” I say quietly. “You reached out. You did what you could with the courage you had.”
She covers her face, weeping softly. “I should have tried harder.”
“Yes, you could have,” I admit, my voice unsteady. “But you gave me something tonight I never thought I’d have—proof that I wasn’t forgotten.”
Her gaze meets mine, red-rimmed and raw. “Please tell me you can forgive me. That somehow you can understand why I couldn’t find the courage to return to you before it was too late.”
I nod slowly. “Clara, we need to forgive ourselves. We need to forgive the world we lived in when we fell in love.”
For a while, neither of us speaks. The quiet between us feels heavy but no longer cruel—like the moment after a storm whenthe air still hums with what’s been broken but the sky begins to clear. Clara wipes at her cheeks, trying to steady her breath.
I stand, the chair legs scraping softly against the floor. The movement feels final, but not unkind. “It’s getting late,” I say, voice rough around the edges. “You should rest.”
She looks up at me, eyes still glassy. “Will you stay? Just for a little while?”
I shake my head, forcing a small, tired smile. “Not tonight. There’s a lot we’ve said that needs time to settle.”
Her chin trembles, but she nods. “You’re right.” She folds her hands in her lap, holding them still like she might come apart if she lets go. “I don’t know if I deserve even this much of you, Marcel.”
“You deserve to heal,” I tell her quietly. “We both do.”
