She looked amazed. “You? What are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to make sure you’re all right,” I said quietly.
For a moment, she said nothing. Then she stepped aside to let me in. The rain drummed softly outside, filling the silence between us.
I looked again at our photo, then at her. Memories overwhelmed me. I reached out, brushed her cheek, and before I could stop myself, I pulled her close.
She didn’t resist. We stood there, holding on to what we’d lost, letting the rain wash away years of pain.
By morning, the storm had cleared. She slept peacefully beside me, her hand resting on the blanket. I knew crossing that line was wrong—but it also felt like forgiveness. For both of us.
Before leaving, I wrote a note:
“I don’t know what the future holds, but I’ll always be here if you need me.”
Weeks later, a letter arrived at my office in her handwriting:
“I don’t regret that rainy night. I just want you to be happy. May it remain our most beautiful memory.”
Sometimes, I still walk past that old building. The small flower pot she tended is still there on the windowsill.
Je ne rentre jamais à l’intérieur, je lève les yeux et souris doucement, sachant que certains amours ne finissent jamais vraiment. Ils trouvent simplement une place tranquille dans nos cœurs et y restent pour toujours.
