“You slept so peacefully. Last night, I didn’t do anything — I just sat beside you, covered you with a blanket, and watched you rest.
I guessed that maybe you had a sad day, and I just wanted you to have one quiet night.”
I stared at the words, my heart tightening. There were more lines below, written in smaller, gentler handwriting:
“There’s something else I must confess. I already knew who you were — not from last night, but from a long time ago.
Years ago, I heard my father tell stories about the woman he once loved and never forgot. When I saw you at the bar, I recognized you instantly. My mother passed away two years ago, and since then, my father has lived alone, quietly, like a shadow of himself.
If you, too, are lonely — if there’s still a small corner of your heart for the past — please, meet him again.
You both deserve some happiness in the time that remains.”
At the bottom of the note, he had written a name and his phone number.
For a long while, I sat there in silence. My heart was trembling — not from shame or confusion, but from a strange, unexpected tenderness. I looked again at the photo: the woman in it didn’t look lonely anymore.
She looked cared for.
That afternoon, I opened an old drawer and found the worn address book I hadn’t touched in years. My fingers shook as I dialed the number I once knew by heart.
When the line connected, a hesitant, familiar voice said, “Hello?”
I took a deep breath and smiled through my tears.
“It’s me,” I whispered. “It’s been a long time.
Maybe… we still owe each other one more sunset.”
Outside the window, the late afternoon light spilled across the quiet street. For the first time in many years, my heart felt light — as if life had quietly handed me a second chance, even now, when I thought all chances were gone.
