The next morning, sunlight slipped through the thin curtains, brushing a soft warmth across my face. I opened my eyes and turned, ready to say good morning — but the space beside me was empty. The pillow still held a faint hollow, a trace of warmth fading away.
On the small table by the bed lay a white envelope. My hands trembled slightly as I opened it. Inside was a photograph — me, asleep, my face calm in the golden glow of the lamp. Beneath it were a few handwritten lines:
I stared at the words, my heart tightening. There were more lines below, written in smaller, gentler handwriting:
“There’s something else I must confess. I already knew who you were — not from last night, but from a long time ago. Years ago, I heard my father tell stories about the woman he once loved and never forgot. When I saw you at the bar, I recognized you instantly. My mother passed away two years ago, and since then, my father has lived alone, quietly, like a shadow of himself.
If you, too, are lonely — if there’s still a small corner of your heart for the past — please, meet him again. You both deserve some happiness in the time that remains.”
At the bottom of the note, he had written a name and his phone number.
For a long while, I sat in silence. My heart trembled — not from shame or confusion, but from a strange, unexpected tenderness. I looked again at the photo: the woman in it didn’t look lonely anymore. She looked cared for.
That afternoon, I opened an old drawer and found the worn address book I hadn’t touched in years. My fingers shook as I dialed the number I once knew by heart.
When the line connected, a hesitant, familiar voice said,
“Hello?”
I took a deep breath and smiled through my tears.
“It’s me,” I whispered. “It’s been a long time. Maybe… we still owe each other one more sunset.”
