Arriving late for the train, Erin decided to head home without calling her parents. As soon as she stepped inside the house, she couldn’t hold back her tears. The chilly October wind flung sharp raindrops onto her face. Erin watched as the train disappeared into the distance, frustration tightening her chest. She had missed it. For the first time in fifteen years of regular trips home—she had missed it.

“It feels just like a bad dream,” she thought, absentmindedly tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The platform was empty and unwelcoming, with only the yellow lights reflecting in puddles, creating whimsical trails of light.

“The next train isn’t until morning,” the ticket clerk said indifferently without lifting her gaze from her crossword puzzle. “Perhaps a coach?”

“Coach…,” Erin grimaced. “Three hours of bumping along a rough road? No thanks.”

Her phone buzzed in her bag—it was Mum. Erin hesitated for a moment, staring at the screen, but she chose not to answer. Why cause worry? Better to just head home, at least she had her keys with her.

The taxi sped through the empty streets, and the city outside the window seemed like a set piece—fake and flat. The driver mumbled something about the weather and traffic, but Erin wasn’t really listening. A strange sense of apprehension was growing inside her—part worry, part excitement.

As she approached the old house, its dark windows greeted her. Climbing the stairs, she inhaled the familiar smells of her childhood: fried potatoes from the third floor, laundry powder, the scent of old wood. But today, there was an unusual note of discord in this familiar symphony.

The key moved in the lock with unexpected resistance, as if the door were holding back. The hallway was dark and quiet—her parents must have already gone to bed. Erin tiptoed into her bedroom, trying not to make a sound.

Switching on the desk lamp, she took a look around. Everything was as usual: bookshelves, an old writing desk, a teddy bear on the bed—a relic from childhood that Mum never let go of. Yet something felt off. Something ungraspably had changed.

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

Erin pulled her laptop from her bag—work couldn’t be postponed. But as she reached for the socket behind the desk, she accidentally knocked over a box.

It tumbled off the shelf, scattering its contents across the floor. Letters. Dozens of yellowing envelopes with faded stamps.

And a photograph—an old one with crinkled edges. A young Mum—she looked so much like a girl!—laughing, leaning against the shoulder of an unfamiliar man.

The first tear fell onto the photograph before Erin even realized she was crying. With trembling hands, she opened the first letter. The handwriting was bold and confident, completely unknown to her.

“Dear Vera! I know I have no right to write, but I can no longer remain silent. I think of you every day, of our… forgive me, even writing it is scary—of our daughter. How is she? Does she look like you? Will you ever forgive me for leaving?”

Her heart raced. Erin grabbed the next letter and then another. Dates—1988, 1990, 1993… All her childhood, all her life, written in someone else’s handwriting.

“I saw her from afar near the school. So serious, with a satchel bigger than her. I didn’t dare approach…”
“Fifteen years. I can only imagine how stunning she’s grown. Vera, perhaps it’s time…?”

A lump formed in her throat. Automatically, Erin flicked on the desk lamp, and the yellow light illuminated the old photo. She stared at the face of the stranger with keen attention. A high forehead, intelligent eyes, a slightly mocking smile… Goodness, she had his nose! And that characteristic tilt of his head…

“Erin?” Her mother’s quiet voice made her jump. “Why didn’t you tell me you were…”

Vera froze in the doorway, seeing the letters spread out on the floor. The color drained from her face.

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

“Please don’t say it’s just an old friend. I can see it… I can feel it…”

Her mother slowly sank onto the edge of the bed. The lamp’s light caught the tremor in her hands.

“Nikolai… Nikolai Sergeyevich Vorontsov,” her voice sounded muffled, as if from another room. “I thought I’d never… that this story remained in the past…”

“Story?” Erin almost whispered.

“Mum, this is all my life! Why were you silent? Why him… why all of you…”

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

“You don’t understand, things were different then. His parents, my parents… they just wouldn’t let us be together.”

Silence fell between them, heavy like a blanket. Somewhere far away, a train thundered—a train she had missed today.

Coincidence? Or had fate decided it was time for the truth to come out?

They sat together through the night. The sky slowly lightened outside, while in the room, the bitter smell of cold tea and unspoken words lingered.

“He was a literature teacher,” Vera spoke softly, as if afraid to scare away the memories. “He came to our school for his teaching placement. Young, handsome, he could recite Blok by heart… All the girls were in love. Erin watched her mother, unable to recognize her. Where had the usual reserve gone? Sitting before her was a different woman—young, in love, with shining eyes.

“And then…” her mother faltered.

“Then I realized I was pregnant.”

“You can’t imagine what started after that! His parents were against a ‘provincial fling,’ mine were horrified about the shame…”

“And you just… gave up?” Erin couldn’t hide her bitterness.

“He was sent to another city. Urgently, without discussion. And a month later, they introduced me to your…,” she hesitated, “to Sergey Petrovich. A good man, reliable…”

“Reliable, ” echoed in Erin’s mind. “Like an old sofa. Like a cupboard. 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, true hurt broke through her mother’s voice. “It was all I had left. He wrote every month, then less often… But he wrote.”

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

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

“Lakeside,” Erin repeated slowly. “That’s only a four-hour drive from here?”

Her mother’s head snapped up.
“Don’t even think about it! Erin, don’t dig up the past…”

“Past?” Erin stood up. “Mum, this isn’t the past. This is my present. And I have the right to know.”

Outside, the light of dawn fully emerged. The new day demanded new decisions.

“I’m going there,” Erin declared firmly. “Today.”

And for the first time in that long night, she felt she was doing the right thing.

Lakeside welcomed Erin with a chilly wind and a drizzling rain. The small town seemed frozen in time: old two-story houses, sparse pedestrians, quiet streets that looked like they were lifted from the pages of provincial novels.

Maple Street was on the outskirts. Erin walked slowly, squinting at the house numbers. Her heart raced, pounding loudly as if it could be heard all down the street.

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

“What will I say to him?” flashed through her mind.
“Hello, I’m your daughter?”

But she didn’t need to decide.

A tall, grey-haired man emerged onto the porch, a book in his hands. He lifted his gaze, and the book slipped from his fingers.

“Vera?” he whispered.

“No… not Vera…”

“I’m Erin,” her voice trembled. “Erin Sergey…” although now she wasn’t even sure about her patronymic.

Nikolai Sergeyevich went pale and grasped the porch railing.

“Lord…” was all he managed to say.

“Come in… come in!”

The house smelled of books and freshly brewed coffee. Everywhere were shelves filled with tomes. On the wall hung a reproduction of “The Demon” by Vrubel, Erin’s favorite painting from childhood.

“I always knew this day would come,” Nikolai Sergeyevich busied himself with cups.

“But I imagined it a thousand times differently…”

“Why didn’t you fight for us?” the question slipped out before she could stop it.

He froze, holding the coffee pot over the stove.

“Because I was weak,” he said simply.

“Because I believed it would be for the best. The greatest mistake of my life.”

There was such sincere pain in his voice that Erin’s heart ached.

“You know,” Nikolai Sergeyevich looked somewhere over her head, “every year on your birthday, I bought a present. They’re all here…”

He rose and opened the door to the next room. Erin 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 carefully picked up the top book. “‘The Little Prince’ with illustrations by the author—for your seventh… I chose things I wanted to read with you.”

Erin ran her fingers along the spines. Thirty years of conversations never held, thirty years of stories unread.

“And this…” he pulled out a worn little volume, “your first publication. A literary anthology, story ‘Letters to Nowhere.’

I recognized your handwriting—you write as I do.”

“You followed me?” Erin was unsure whether to feel angry or to cry.

“I didn’t stalk. I just… lived parallel to you. Like a shadow, like a reflection in a crooked mirror.”

They talked until evening. About books and poetry, unfulfilled dreams and missed opportunities. About how he watched her graduation—hiding behind the trees in the schoolyard. About how he’d sent anonymous reviews for her early articles.

When darkness fell outside, Erin suddenly realized she’d been calling him “Dad” for several hours. The word had slipped out naturally, as easy as breathing.

“I should go,” she stood up. “Mum is probably going mad.”

“Tell her…,” he hesitated. “On second thoughts, no. I’ll write to her myself. For the last time.”

At the gate, he called out to her:

“Erin! Will you… ever forgive me?”

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

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

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

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

And a month later, they sat together for the first time—everyone together. It turned out that love, like a good book, has no expiration date.

You just need the courage to open its first page.