The Journey Home
At 78, I sold everything—my apartment, my truck, even my prized vinyl collection. None of it mattered anymore. Only she did.
Elizabeth’s letter arrived like a ghost from the past:
“I’ve been thinking of you.”
Decades vanished in an instant. We started writing again—hesitant at first, then pouring out years of unspoken words. And then, she sent her address.
That was all I needed.
I booked a one-way ticket, but somewhere over the Midwest, a sharp pain shot through my chest. The world blurred. Then, darkness.
I woke in a hospital, a nurse named Lauren at my side.
“You had a heart attack mid-flight. Your plane made an emergency landing.”
I was grounded. No flying, no stress. No Elizabeth.
But Lauren understood running. She had spent her life escaping loss, burying herself in work. Somehow, our stories intertwined.
On my last day, she handed me car keys.
“A way out,” she said.
We drove for hours, dust and asphalt stretching ahead like an unspoken promise.
At the address Elizabeth had given me, we found not a home—but a nursing facility.
And inside, not Elizabeth.
Her sister.
“Susan,” I breathed.
She smiled sadly. “James. You came.”
Elizabeth was gone. A year ago.
I clenched my jaw. “You let me believe…”
Tears welled in her eyes. “She never stopped reading your letters. I just—I didn’t want to be alone.”
Grief crushed me. But anger faded into something else. Understanding.
At Elizabeth’s grave, I whispered, “I made it.” But I was too late.
Or maybe not.
I stayed. Lauren did, too. Susan moved in.
Evenings were spent in Elizabeth’s garden, watching the sky shift colors, playing chess, sharing laughter.
I had traveled across the country chasing one love.
But fate had given me two.