John sat in his study, flipping through the old wooden chest his late mother had left behind. Dust danced in the pale afternoon light, settling on forgotten trinkets, faded photographs, and yellowed papers.
At the bottom of the chest, he found an envelope. Its edges were frayed, its ink smudged, but his name was written on it — in a handwriting he had not seen in three decades.
His hands trembled. Anna.
Thirty years ago, she had been his whole world. They had planned a future together, but life had other plans. John left for college in another city, then a job, then marriage, then children. Anna became a memory — one that lived in the soft corners of his heart.
He tore the envelope open. Inside was a single sheet of paper, the ink faded but still legible:
“My dearest John,
If you’re reading this, it means time has carried us far apart. I don’t know where you are now, but I want you to know this: I never stopped loving you. Life wasn’t kind to us, but my heart was always yours.
Goodbye, my love.
— Anna”
John sat frozen, the words echoing in the quiet room. Thirty years. She had loved him all along.
He Googled her name. His breath caught. Obituary — Anna Marie Collins. Two months ago.
John closed his eyes, clutching the letter to his chest. For thirty years, they had been under the same sky, living separate lives — and now, all he had left was this goodbye.
Tears slid down his face as he whispered into the silence:
“Goodbye, Anna. I loved you too.”
