As she sorted through the attic, Clara found an old wooden box covered in dust. Inside, folded carefully, was a letter addressed to her grandmother, Eleanor. But it wasn’t the handwriting that struck her—it was the date. 1943.The ink was faded but still legible. “Dearest Eleanor, if fate allows, meet me at the bridge on the first snowfall. If not, know that you are always in my heart.”Clara shivered. Who was the sender? Had her grandmother ever received this? She had to know.
Clara rushed downstairs, clutching the letter. Her grandmother, now in her late eighties, sat by the window, staring at the trees swaying in the wind.“Grandma, I found this in the attic,” Clara said, placing the letter in her hands.Eleanor’s fingers trembled as she unfolded it. As her eyes skimmed the words, a tear slipped down her cheek.“It was him… William.” Her voice cracked. “We were young. I told him I would wait. But the war…”Clara saw something she had never seen before—a look of sorrow that had lasted a lifetime.
The first snowfall came late that year. Clara convinced Eleanor to take a walk with her—to the old bridge.Bundled in a warm coat, Eleanor stepped carefully onto the wooden planks. She stared at the empty place before her.Then—footsteps.An old man, dressed in layers, stood at the other end. His eyes widened, and he whispered, “Eleanor?”Clara watched as her grandmother stepped forward, her tears falling like snowflakes. After all these years, the letter had finally led them back to each other.
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