I stared at the screen long after Emily lowered the phone.
Forty years.
I had built an entire life on the assumption that chapter was closed — not tragic, not romantic, just unfinished and quietly shelved. And now here it was, asking to be read again.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “What if he’s disappointed? What if I am?”
Emily smiled, the kind of smile only someone young enough to still believe in beginnings can give.
“Or what if you’re not?”
I didn’t sleep that night.
By morning, I had graded three essays I barely remembered reading and drunk tea that tasted like nothing. When I walked into class, Emily was waiting.
“I didn’t tell him where you work,” she said quickly. “But I told him you’re real. And that you remember him.”
My breath caught.
“And?”
“He replied,” she said. “Immediately.”
After school, I sat at my desk while Emily read his message aloud.
I never stopped looking for you.
My parents made us leave overnight. I wasn’t allowed to contact anyone.
I kept something of yours all these years.
If you’re willing, I’d like to return it — in person — before Christmas.
My hands shook.
“What is it?” I asked.
Emily hesitated.
“He didn’t say.”
We agreed on a café downtown — neutral, public, safe. I wore my blue coat, the one I’d kept without realizing why.
Daniel stood when I walked in.
Time had softened him, not erased him. The same eyes. The same nervous half-smile.
For a moment, we just looked at each other.
“You found me,” I said.
“I never stopped trying,” he replied.
We talked for hours. About lost years. About lives lived in parallel. About how leaving wasn’t a choice — his father had been arrested, assets frozen, phones taken.
Then he reached into his coat pocket and placed something on the table.
A small velvet box.
Inside was a silver locket, worn smooth.
“You gave this to me the Christmas before we were supposed to leave,” he said quietly. “You said if I ever lost my way, I should open it.”
I opened it with trembling fingers.
Inside was a faded photo of us — and a folded piece of paper.
My handwriting.
If you find this, come back to me.
Tears slid down my face.
“I tried,” he said softly. “I just ran out of time. Until now.”
Outside, snow had begun to fall — the first of the season.
“I don’t know what comes next,” I said.
Daniel smiled.
“Neither do I. But maybe we can stop searching.”
That Christmas, I learned something I now tell my students every year:
Some stories don’t end.
They wait.
And sometimes, if you’re very lucky, they find you again.
