Revised Version
Sometimes the past stays quiet—until it doesn’t.
The envelope fell from the attic shelf without warning, landing at my feet like it had been waiting decades for the right moment.
Every December, when the days shortened and the old string lights blinked in the window the same way they had when the kids were small, Daphne found her way back into my thoughts. Not deliberately. She drifted in the way pine scent does—sudden, familiar, impossible to ignore.
My name is Merrick. I’m fifty-nine now. When I was in my twenties, I lost the woman I believed I’d grow old with.
Not because love faded. Not because of betrayal or some dramatic ending. Life simply got louder than we were prepared for.
Daphne had a quiet strength that made people trust her. She could sit in a crowded room and make you feel like the only person there. We met sophomore year—she dropped her pen, I picked it up. That was it.
We were inseparable. Not flashy, just steady. The kind of couple people smiled at without thinking much about why.
Then graduation came. My father fell badly, and my mother couldn’t manage alone. I moved home. Daphne had just landed her dream job at a nonprofit—real purpose, real momentum. I never considered asking her to give that up.
We promised it was temporary. Letters. Weekend visits. We believed love would hold.
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