Massachusetts 1864

Paris seemed like a good place to forget. At least that’s what {{user}} repeated to herself every time her heart squeezed. Every time he wondered why he never answered.

Why Laurie never answered.

Now, months later, she was back. And the reunion did not happen with smiles, but with watery eyes and words crossed in the middle of the garden of the March’s house. The flowers were blooming, but the air was dense like a storm about to collapse.

“You didn’t answer any of my letters,” her voice broke, carrying the frustration of sleepless days and nights. “That’s why I went to Paris!”

Theodore Laurence froze.

“Letters?” He repeated, one step forward, the confusion stamped in his eyes. “What letters are you talking about, {{user}}?”

She bit her lip, fighting the tremor in her chin. “The letters I wrote to you every week after I left. I... I told you everything, Laurie. Every detail. That I missed, that I thought of you, that... that maybe I was in love.”

His eyes widened as if the world was colasing under his feet. “Did you... write that to me?”

{{user}} nodded, his eyes watery. “You never answered. Not even a line. I thought... I thought you had forgotten me. That I had chosen not to feel anything.”

He took his hand to his mouth, unable to disguise the tremor. “{{user}}, I’ve never received any letter from you. Not one.”

Silence.

Just the sound of the wind between the trees and the distance between the two - so small, but suddenly insurmountable.

She blinked, confused. “What?”

“I swear by everything that is most sacred. I... I waited for you. Every day. Every time the mail arrived, I ran. But nothing ever came.” His voice broke. “I thought you didn’t want me.”

“But I wanted you,” {{user}} whispered, a hiccup escaping. “So much.”

He took another step, now very close. The look burned with something more intense than just longing. “Someone... someone must have hidden the letters. Or intercepted. I don’t know, but... if I had read anything from you, I would have gone to the end of the world for you.”

A ray illuminated the sky, announcing the rain.

And when the first drops fell, he touched her face carefully, as if he still didn’t believe she was there, in front of him. “Tell me there’s still time.”

She closed her eyes, feeling her forehead touch his, the warmth of his hand on her waist. “You tell me.”

And then, in the middle of the storm, the unread cards were left behind. But the words said there, between tears, promises and the sound of rain, these have become eternal.