r. The quiet evenings and long mornings in the cottage had become routine, and yet, every time Elias passed the desk, his gaze was drawn to the

desk, the envelope now in front of him. He ran his fingers over the paper, the crease of the fold soft beneath his to

cture of himself and Thomas, both younger than he remembered, standing side by side beneath the oak tree. Their smiles were wide, innocent, unto

nize, his expression serious but softened by a trace of something Elias couldn't quite place. There was no smile this time, only th

h that spoke of a life lived with both light and shadow. Elias felt his heart tighten

ned the first one, his hands trembling slightly as he read the familiar words. They were letters he had never seen before, written

ips away, and with it, I fear the things I have left undone. There are so many things I want to say, but they seem to

omas had carried this burden for so long, writing words that would never re

in the words, laughing at some old inside joke, remembering the summers beneath the oak tree. But even in these

All at once, it felt as though the weight of the past had descended upon him, not with anger or bitterness, but with an overwhelming sense of sorrow.

of promise. He could almost hear the rustle of the leaves, feel the warmth of the sun on his skin. It was

ity to slip away unnoticed, and the things that seemed so certain at one p

ne to tell now felt incomplete, as if there was a missing piece, a chapter he had overlooked. Perhaps it was time to wri

as missing-something he had to confront before he could finish the story. Now, with the photographs and letters in front of him, he understood. The missing chap

d to the first blank page of th

h an oak tree, and the years that came between them. It is a story of love

writing for Thomas, for himself, or for both of them. But for the first time in a long while, it