es of his mind. The manuscript, now opened on his desk, seemed to pulse with a quiet urgency, as though it, too, had waited all thes

othing more pressing than the simple joy of long afternoons under the oak tree in the field behind their childhood home. Elias could still picture the way the sunlight had filtered through the leaves, casting dappl

could still hear Thomas's voice, strong and certain, echoing in his mind. He could almost feel the warmth of the summer day, the

the sound of his laugh. Over the years, their letters had become fewer, the visits had stopped, and with each passin

ars now felt like a choice made in haste, a retreat from something that had once been so pure and easy. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if to bring back the feeling of that

ows that seemed to mimic the fleeting nature of those memories. He t

ay to the reality of responsibilities and growing distances. He remembered how, during that winter, a thick blanket of snow had covered the ground, making the world feel smaller, quieter, as if time itself had

he letters had stopped, and in the silence, the distance between them had only widened. He had tried to convince himself that it was just the

otograph on the windowsill. The young man in the picture-the one with the

red, a faint trace of a smile tugging at his

nnecting with the person he used to be, the person he had left behind in the pages of this manuscript. There was