It was a rainy afternoon when Eleanor stumbled upon the letter. Tucked behind a loose brick in the fireplace of her late grandmother’s house, the yellowed envelope bore her mother’s name in faded ink. Her heart pounded as she unfolded the fragile paper.
"My dearest Evelyn," the letter began. "I never stopped loving you. If you ever need me, I’ll be waiting in Charleston. Always, Henry."
Eleanor’s breath hitched. Her father’s name wasn’t Henry. It was Robert. Her mother had passed away years ago, taking her secrets with her, or so Eleanor had thought. But here it was—a whisper from the past, a love story she had never known, a truth buried beneath decades of silence.
She clutched the letter, staring out the rain-streaked window. Had her mother been forced into marriage? Had Henry ever known she never came? A flicker of determination ignited within her. She had to find out.
Days later, standing outside an old bookstore in Charleston, she hesitated. Was she truly ready to uncover the past? Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside.
Behind the counter, an elderly man looked up. His eyes, soft and full of stories, widened as they met hers. For a moment, time seemed to stop. Then he whispered, "You look just like her."
Eleanor’s world shifted. The past had found her, and nothing would ever be the same.