The next weekend, I went back to the flea market. The same vendor remembered me instantly. “Those shoes?” she said, frowning. “A man brought in a box of clothes. Said his neighbor — Anna — was moving and didn’t want them.”
That was enough.
The house looked forgotten — paint peeling, weeds curling through cracks, curtains drawn tight. When I knocked, a frail woman with hollow eyes opened the door.
“Anna?” I asked quietly.
She stiffened. “Who’s asking?”
I held out the letter. “I found this. In a pair of shoes.”
Her face went pale. She took the paper with shaking hands and sank against the doorframe. “I wrote that when I thought I couldn’t keep living,” she whispered.
Without thinking, I reached out and held her hand. “But you’re still here,” I said softly. “That means something.”
She broke. The tears came like a flood — years of pain pouring out all at once. I held her as she wept, and in that moment, something inside both of us began to heal — not from grief, but from understanding.Continue reading…
