Walter had lived in the bungalow on Sycamore Street for nearly forty years, and yet, it still held secrets. After his wife, Ellen, passed, the silence became unbearable. One day, while clearing out an old trunk in the attic, he found an envelope wedged between the wooden slats. The ink had faded, but his name was still visible.
Inside was a letter, dated 1956.
"Dear Walter, if you're reading this, it means fate has decided for us. I wanted to tell you the truth, but I was too afraid…"
Walter sat down hard on the attic floor, his heart pounding. The handwriting was unfamiliar. Who had written this? And why had it been hidden in his home?
Over the next few days, he pieced together clues. The letter spoke of a love that had never been spoken aloud, a choice made out of duty rather than desire. And then, a name—Margaret.
Walter’s breath caught. He remembered Margaret from long ago, a woman with a quiet smile and eyes that always held something unsaid. He had been engaged to Ellen then, and Margaret had disappeared from town soon after. Could she have…?
His hands trembled as he checked the town records. Margaret was still alive, living in a retirement home a few miles away.
Three days later, he stood at her door. She looked at him with wide eyes, and then—recognition. "I always hoped you'd find it," she whispered.
There were questions, regrets, and long-buried emotions. But as the afternoon sun filtered through the window, Walter realized something: time had given them a second chance.