When I turned 62, life appeared calm and uneventful. My husband had been gone for many years, and my children had their own families now — too busy to visit often.
I lived alone in a small house on the outskirts of town. In the evenings, I would sit by the window, listening to the soft chirping of birds and watching the golden sunlight stretch across the empty street.
It was a peaceful existence, yet beneath that quiet surface lay something I rarely dared to acknowledge — loneliness.
No one remembered — not a single call, not even a simple “happy birthday.” So, on a sudden impulse, I decided to take a night bus into the city by myself. I had no plan, only a wish to do something out of the ordinary, something a little bold before time slipped away.
I wandered into a small bar glowing with warm yellow light. The music was gentle, the air soft.
Choosing a corner seat, I ordered a glass of red wine. It had been years since I’d last tasted alcohol; the sharp sweetness spread across my tongue and soothed me.
As I watched people come and go, I noticed a man walking toward me. He looked to be in his early forties, with a few strands of gray in his hair and a calm, thoughtful expression.
He smiled and asked politely, “May I buy you another drink?”
Our conversation flowed effortlessly, as if we’d known each other forever. He told me he was a photographer, just back from a long trip. I spoke of my youth and the journeys I had once dreamed of taking but never did.
Perhaps it was the wine, or the way he looked at me, but I felt an unfamiliar pull — a warmth I hadn’t known in years.
That night, I got drunk so he took me to a hotel. For the first time in so long, I felt the comfort of another person’s arms, the feelings of being held. In the dim light, we didn’t speak much; I fell asleep without knowing it.
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:
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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