When you’re 77, there’s no more time for hesitation. You don’t wait for the “right moment” because you know all too well—it may never come. That’s why I sold everything I owned.
My old car, the armchair I loved to read in, the record player and vinyls I’d collected since youth. Even my retirement watch, the one with the inscription from my colleagues. All of it—gone. Traded for a one-way ticket. To her.
Her name was Marina. We met in 1968, at a summer dance by the river. We were young, in love, and convinced that life was waiting for us to catch up. But life had other plans—military service, distance, bureaucracy. One lost letter, and we were gone from each other’s lives. Fifty years passed.
But I never forgot her.
She married. Had a son. I knew that much. I watched her life from afar, always wondering, never daring to reach out. Until, one cold autumn evening, I realized: it’s now or never.
I sent a letter. Her son found it. He replied:
“She remembers. She never forgot. She’s waiting. Here’s the address.”
My heart trembled. I hadn’t dared to hope. But suddenly, I was alive again. So I sold everything and bought the ticket. To go to her.
I dressed in my best suit, the one I’d saved for my funeral. Fitting, perhaps—this wasn’t a goodbye to life, but a return to it.
In my pocket, an old photograph. Faded with time. We’re in it, laughing, standing by the riverbank. I’m holding her hand. I memorized her smile years ago. I didn’t know what she looked like now—and I didn’t care. I was in love with the same woman, even five decades later.
As the plane took off, I pressed the photo to my chest and closed my eyes. When we rose above the clouds, I felt a peace I hadn’t known in years. My hands trembled, but my heart was steady.
Then my phone buzzed.
I didn’t want to look. Something inside me said, wait. But my fingers had their own will. I unlocked it.
A new message. From her son.
“I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner. My mother passed away this morning. Peacefully. She was waiting for you.”
The world went silent.
Right there, 30,000 feet above the earth, my heart broke in two.
I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. I stared at the photo. At that captured moment, that brief eternity where we were still together. Where we still had time. But now… now I was flying toward someone who no longer waited. Toward an address that would open to silence.
When the plane landed, I was the last to leave. I walked slowly. In my hand, a bouquet I had bought in Moscow. Meant for her. Now just a handful of fading flowers no one would receive.
Still, I went to the address.
It was a quiet street. A simple home. On the door, a black ribbon.
I rang.
An older woman answered. A neighbor, perhaps. She looked at me, paused, and then asked:
— “You’re him, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
She smiled gently.
— “She talked about you every day. Right until the end. This morning, she sat by the window holding your letter. Said, ‘He’s coming.’ Then she closed her eyes.”
I left the flowers on the doorstep.
That was three months ago. I never left the city.
I live in a cheap guesthouse now. Walk past her house every morning. Sit on a bench by the river every evening. Not the same river—but it’s enough. I close my eyes and pretend I hear her laugh.
Sometimes, I whisper:
“I made it, Marina. Just a little too late.”
But perhaps not too late for everything.
Because she knew I came.
She knew I remembered.
She died knowing she was still loved.
And somehow, that gives me the strength to wake up each morning.
To sit by the river.
To love her still.
