After missing her train, Emily decided to go home without making a call. As soon as she stepped inside her house, she couldn’t hold back her tears. The chilly October wind lashed her face with sharp raindrops. Emily watched the train disappear into the distance, and inside, frustration tightened its grip. She had been late. Late for the first time in fifteen years of regular journeys home.

“It’s like a bad dream,” she thought, unconsciously smoothing a stray lock of hair. The platform felt empty and unwelcoming; only the yellow lamps reflected in the puddles, creating whimsical light trails.

“The next train isn’t until morning,” the ticket clerk informed her indifferently, not even looking up from her crossword. “Maybe you could take a bus?”

“Bus…” Emily grimaced. “Three hours of bumping along a broken road? No thanks.”

Her phone buzzed in her bag—it was her mum. Emily hesitated for a moment, staring at the screen but chose not to answer. Why worry her? It was better to simply return home; after all, she always had her keys.

The taxi sped through the quiet streets, and the city outside the window seemed like a backdrop—unreal, flat. The driver muttered something about the weather and traffic jams, but Emily didn’t listen. A strange feeling grew inside her—was it anxiety or excitement?

The old house greeted her with dark windows. Ascending the stairs, she breathed in familiar childhood scents: fried potatoes from the third floor, laundry detergent, and aged wood. But today, amidst this usual symphony, there was an unsettling note.

The key turned in the lock unexpectedly heavy, as if the door was resisting her. The hallway was dark and quiet—her parents were clearly already asleep. Emily tiptoed to her room, trying to make as little noise as possible.

Switching on the bedside lamp, she glanced around. Everything was as usual: bookshelf, old writing desk, and the teddy bear on her bed—a relic of childhood her mother had yet to let go of. But something felt off. Something had subtly changed.

Perhaps it was the silence? Not the usual night silence, but a thicker, heavier kind, almost like the foreboding stillness before a storm. As if the house was holding its breath, waiting for something.

Emily pulled her laptop out of her bag—work wouldn’t do itself. But reaching for the socket behind the desk, she accidentally nudged a box. It tumbled off the shelf, scattering its contents across the floor.

Letters. Dozens of yellowed envelopes with faded stamps. And a photograph—old, with dog-eared corners. A young mum—a girl, really!—smiling, leaning against the shoulder of a strange man.

The first tear fell onto the photograph before Emily realized she was crying. With trembling hands, she unfolded the first letter. The handwriting—bold, confident, completely unfamiliar.

“Dear Sarah! I know I have no right to write, but I can’t stay silent any longer. I think of you every day, of our… I’m sorry, I’m even scared to write—our daughter. How is she? Does she look like you? Will you ever forgive me for leaving?”

Her heart raced violently. Emily grabbed the next letter, then another. The dates—1988, 1990, 1993… All her childhood, her entire life laid out in these letters written by someone else’s hand.

“…I saw her from a distance near the school. So serious, with a satchel bigger than she was. I didn’t dare approach…”

“…fifteen years. I can only imagine how beautiful she has grown. Sarah, perhaps it’s time…?”

A lump formed in her throat. Emily instinctively switched on the desk lamp, and the yellow light picked out an old photo from the darkness. Now she examined the stranger’s face with intense focus. A high brow, intelligent eyes, a slightly mocking smile… Lord, she had his nose! And that characteristic tilt of his head…

“Emily?” A soft voice from her mother made her jump. “Why didn’t you let me know you were…?”

Sarah paused in the doorway, her eyes widening at the sight of the letters strewn across the floor. The color drained from her face.

“Mum, who is this?” Emily held up the photograph.

“Don’t say he’s just an old friend. I can see… I can feel…”

Her mother slowly sat down on the edge of the bed. In the lamplight, her hands trembled visibly.

“Nicholas… Nicholas Gregory Varonov,” her voice was muffled, as though from another room. “I thought I would never… that this story was left in the past…”

“Story?”

Emily nearly whispered, almost shouting.

“Mum, this is my whole life! Why did you stay silent? Why didn’t he… why didn’t you all…”

“Because it was necessary!” The pain broke through her mother’s voice.

“You don’t understand, it was different back then. His parents, my parents… They just wouldn’t let us be together.”

Silence fell over the room like a heavy blanket. Somewhere in the distance, a train thundered by—the same one Emily had missed today.

Was it a coincidence? Or had fate decided it was time for the truth to surface?

They sat together until dawn. Outside, the sky slowly lightened, while the room filled with the bitter smell of cold tea and unspoken words.

“He was a literature teacher,” Sarah spoke quietly, as if afraid to scare away the memories. “He arrived at our school as part of a placement. Young, handsome, reciting poems by heart… All the girls were enamored.”

Emily looked at her mother and didn’t recognize her. Where had her usual restraint gone? Sitting before her was a different woman—young, in love, with sparkling eyes.

“And then…” her mother faltered.

“Then I found out I was pregnant. You can’t imagine what began! His parents were against a ‘provincial fling,’ mine spoke of disgrace…”

“And you just… gave in?” Emily couldn’t hide her bitterness.

“He was transferred to another city. Urgently, without discussions. And a month later, I met your…,” she stopped short, “your stepfather, James Bennett. A good man, reliable…”

“Reliable,” echoed in Emily’s mind. “Like an old sofa. Like a wardrobe. Like everything in this flat.”

“But the letters… why did you keep them?”

“Because I couldn’t throw them away!” For the first time that night, real pain came through her mother’s voice. “It was all that remained. He wrote every month, then less frequently… But he wrote.”

Emily picked up the last letter. The date—three years ago.

“Dear Sarah! I’ve moved to Littleton, bought a house on Maple Street. Perhaps one day… Always yours, N.”

“Littleton,” Emily repeated slowly. “That’s only four hours away from here?”

Her mother flared up:

“Don’t even think about it! Emily, you mustn’t dig up the past…”

“The past?” Emily stood up. “Mum, this isn’t the past. This is the present. My present. And I have the right to know.”

Outside, daylight had fully arrived. A new day demanded new decisions.

“I’ll go there,” Emily said determinedly. “Today.”

And for the first time that endless night, she sensed she was doing the right thing.

Littleton greeted Emily with a chilly wind and drizzling rain. The small town felt frozen in time: old two-story houses, rare passersby, quiet streets straight from the pages of provincial novels.

Maple Street turned out to be on the outskirts.

Emily walked slowly, scanning the house numbers. Her heart pounded so loudly, it seemed its thump echoed down the street.

Number 17. A small, tidy house, with curtains in the windows and yellow asters in the front garden. The gate was unlocked.

“What will I say? Will I say, ‘Hello, I’m your daughter?’”

But she didn’t have to decide.

A tall, gray-haired man stepped onto the porch, a book in hand. He looked up, and the book slipped from his grasp.

“Sarah?” he whispered.

“No… not Sarah…”

“I’m Emily,” her voice trembled. “Emily Fawcett… although now I’m not sure about the surname.”

Nicholas Gregory paled and gripped the porch railing.

“My God…” was all he could manage to say.

“Come in… come inside!”

The house smelled of books and freshly brewed coffee. Shelves were overflowing with volumes. On the wall hung a reproduction of “The Demon” by Vrubel, Emily’s favorite painting since childhood.

“I always knew this day would come,” Nicholas Gregory fussed with cups.

“But I imagined it a thousand times differently…”

“Why didn’t you fight for us?” the question escaped her lips.

He froze, holding a coffee pot over the stove.

“Because I was weak,” he answered simply.

“Because I believed it would be better this way. The greatest mistake of my life.”

There was such genuine pain in his voice that Emily’s heart ached.

“You know,” Nicholas Gregory stared somewhere over her head, “every year on your birthday, I bought you a gift. They are all here…”

He stood and opened the door to the next room. Emily gasped. Along the wall were neat stacks of books, each marked with a ribbon.

“The first edition of ‘Alice in Wonderland’—for your fifth birthday,” he gently lifted the top book. “‘The Little Prince’ with illustrations by the author—for your seventh… I chose the ones I wanted to read with you.”

Emily traced her fingers over the spines. Thirty years of unfulfilled conversations, thirty years of unread stories.

“And this…” he pulled out a tattered volume, “your first publication. A literary almanac, a story ‘Letters to Nowhere.’ I recognized your handwriting—you write like I do.”

“Have you been following me?” Emily wasn’t sure whether to feel angry or to cry.

“I didn’t follow. Just… lived parallel. Like a shadow, like a reflection in a warped mirror.”

They talked until evening. About books and poetry, unfulfilled dreams and lost opportunities. How he had seen her graduation—standing behind the trees in the schoolyard. How he had sent anonymous reviews of her first articles.

When nightfall came, Emily suddenly realized she had been calling him “Dad” for several hours. The word slipped effortlessly from her tongue, as natural as breathing.

“I should go,” she said, rising to her feet. “Mum will be frantic.”

“Tell her…” he hesitated.

“Actually, no. I’ll write to her myself. One last time.”

At the gate, he called out to her:

“Emily! Will you… ever forgive me?”

She turned. In the twilight, his figure looked blurred, indistinct.

“I’ve already forgiven you,” she answered softly. “But we have much to catch up on.”

A week later, Sarah received a letter. The last one.

It contained only three words: “Come. I’m waiting.”

And a month later, they all sat down at the same table together for the first time. And it turned out that love, like a good book, knows no expiration date.

All it takes is the courage to turn the first page.