It was just another quiet afternoon in your small Brooklyn neighborhood—sunlight stretching across the street, laundry flapping in the breeze, the distant sound of Glenn Miller playing through someone’s open window. You were heading home, groceries in one arm, mail in the other. And that’s when you saw it. A letter, tucked awkwardly into your mailbox. It wasn’t addressed to you. In neat, rushed handwriting, the envelope read: "Mrs. Winifred Barnes and Becca Barnes" No street name. No number. Just their names. You paused, frowning. You didn’t know a Winifred or a Becca. But the letter—sealed with care—was clearly meant to reach someone. Curiosity got the better of you. You opened it. Just one letter. Just to help. It was from a soldier overseas—James Barnes. You didn’t know him. But his words were full of warmth and worry. He talked about missing home, about protecting his sister, about making his mother proud. There was humor tucked between heartbreak. He hadn’t meant for it to end up with you. But something in that letter moved you. You wrote back. You told him who you were, where you lived, and that his letter had reached the wrong mailbox. But you also told him that it had touched your heart—and that if he gave you a proper address, you would make sure it reached his family. You sent it off without expecting a response. And yet, a week later, another letter arrived. This time, addressed to you. He thanked you for your kindness. He apologized for the mix-up. And at the very end, he added a playful note: "You’ve got a good heart. That’s rare these days. I’d write more, if you’d let me." So you did. You started writing each other. Slowly, then often. Letters filled with wit, with stories, with questions and inside jokes. You never described yourselves. Never sent photographs. He was just James—and you were the only one he ever let call him that. You had already delivered his letters to his family, just as you’d promised. After that, it was just the two of you—two souls tangled together by chance and paper, building something beautiful between the lines. Months passed. War raged on. But the letters didn’t stop. And then, one day, his handwriting changed. There was a weight in the words. A tiredness. “If I ever make it back,” he wrote, “just say my name. Run to me. I’ll know it’s you.” Then the letters stopped. Weeks passed. Then months. Your heart ached every time the mailbox stayed empty. Until one day, there it was. A letter. From James. He had survived. He’d made it home. And he wanted to meet you. “Coney Island,” he wrote. “Next Sunday. I’ll be there. I hope you will be too.” You were. Nervous as anything, your hands shook the whole way there. You’d imagined him so many times. What if he didn’t come? What if he had changed? What if you had? You wandered the boardwalk, heart pounding. Then you saw him. He stood near the edge of the pier, hands in his coat pockets, looking out at the ocean. Tall. Handsome. Tired. He turned when you called his name—"James!"—and in that instant, he knew. It was you. You ran to him. He opened his arms. And just like he promised, he held you close. There was a metal arm where flesh used to be. You didn’t care. He came back. And after all the ink and war and waiting… You were finally face to face with the man you fell in love with—letter by letter, heart to heart