Having missed her train, Emily decided not to call home and just return. As she stepped into her house, tears threatened to spill. The cold October wind whipped her face with sharp raindrops. Emily watched the train fade into the distance, frustration knotting in her chest. She was late. For the first time in fifteen years of regular journeys home – she had missed it.

“It feels just like a bad dream,” she thought, absently tucking a stray hair behind her ear. The platform felt barren and unwelcoming, with only the yellow lamps reflecting off puddles, creating whimsical trails of light.

“The next train isn’t until morning,” said the ticket lady, her eyes glued to her crossword. “Perhaps a bus?”

“A bus…” Emily grimaced. “Three hours rattling on a bumpy road? No thanks.”

Her phone vibrated in her bag – it was her mother. Emily hesitated, looking at the screen but chose not to answer. No need to worry her. Better to just head home; after all, she always had her keys.

The taxi sped through empty streets, the city outside looking like a backdrop – unreal and flat. The driver mumbled something about the weather and traffic, but Emily didn’t catch it. A strange premonition grew inside her – was it anxiety or excitement?

The old house welcomed her with dark windows. As she climbed the stairs, familiar childhood smells wafted into her nostrils: chips frying from the third floor, laundry detergent, aged wood. Yet today, an unsettling discordant note tainted this familiar symphony.

The key turned in the lock with unexpected heaviness, as if the door resisted her entry. The hallway lay shrouded in darkness – her parents were evidently already asleep. Emily tiptoed into her room, trying to make no noise.

Switching on the desk lamp, she surveyed her surroundings. Everything was as it always was: the bookshelves, the old writing desk, the teddy bear on the bed – a relic of childhood that her mother had never let go of. Yet something felt off. Something intangible had changed.

Perhaps it was the silence? Not the typical nighttime stillness, but a thicker, denser quiet, reminiscent of the stillness before a storm. As though the house held its breath, waiting.

Emily took out her laptop – work was work. But as she reached for the socket behind the desk, her hand accidentally nudged a box. It tumbled from the shelf, spilling its contents onto the floor.

Letters. Dozens of yellowed envelopes with faded stamps.
And a photograph – old, with dog-eared corners. A young mother – just a girl! – laughing as she nestled against a stranger’s shoulder.

The first tear fell on the photo before Emily even realized she was crying. Unsteady hands opened the first letter. The handwriting was bold, assertive, entirely unfamiliar.

“Dear Vera! I know I have no right to write, but I can’t remain silent. I think of you every day, of our… forgive me, it’s terrifying to even write – our daughter. How is she? Does she look like you? Will you ever forgive me for leaving?”

Her heart raced. Emily grabbed the next letter, then another. Dates – 1988, 1990, 1993… Her entire childhood, her whole life documented in another’s handwriting.

“I saw her from afar by the school. So serious, with a satchel bigger than herself. I didn’t dare approach…”

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

A lump formed in her throat. Instinctively, she switched on the desk lamp, and the yellow light illuminated the old photo. Now, she stared intently at the stranger’s face with insatiable curiosity. A high forehead, intelligent eyes, a hint of a smirk… God, she had his nose! And that characteristic tilt of his head…

“Emily?” Her mother’s soft voice startled her. “Why didn’t you let me know that…”

Vera froze in the doorway, seeing the letters scattered across the floor. Color drained from her face.

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

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

Her mother slowly sank onto the edge of the bed. In the lamp’s glow, her hands trembled.

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

“A story?”

Emily nearly whispered, aghast. “Mother, this is my whole life! Why did you keep silent? Why did he… why did you all…”

“Because it was necessary!” Her mother’s voice cracked with pain.

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

Silence fell heavily over the room, like a thick blanket. Somewhere in the distance, a train rumbled – the very one Emily had missed today.

A coincidence? Or was fate deciding it was time for the truth to surface?

They sat together until morning. Outside, the sky slowly lightened, while a bitter aroma of tepid tea and unspoken words wove through the room.

“He was a literature teacher,” Vera spoke softly, as if afraid to frighten her memories away. “He came to our school on assignment. Young, handsome, reciting Blok from memory… All the girls were in love with him.”

Emily stared at her mother, struggling to recognize her. Where had that usual restraint gone? Before her sat another woman – youthful, in love, with bright eyes.

“And then…” her mother faltered.

“Then I realized I was pregnant.”

“You can’t imagine the chaos that ensued! His parents opposed a ‘provincial affair’, mine preached shame…”

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

“They transferred him to another city. Urgently, without discussion. And within a month, they introduced you to….” she faltered, “to Steven Peterson. 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 bear to throw them away!” For the first time that night, genuine pain broke through her mother’s voice. “It was all that remained. He wrote every month, then less often… but he wrote.”

Emily took the last letter. The date – three years ago.

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

“Lakeshire,” Emily slowly pronounced. “That’s four hours away from here?”

Her mother tensed.

“Don’t even think about it! Emily, it’s not worth digging up the past…”

“The past?” Emily stood. “Mother, this isn’t the past. It’s my present. And I have a right to know.”

Outside, daylight broke completely. A new day demanded new decisions.

“I’m going there,” Emily declared resolutely. “Today.”

And for the first time through the endless night, she felt she was making the right choice.

Lakeshire greeted Emily with a chilly wind and drizzling rain. The little town appeared frozen in time: old two-storey houses, sparse pedestrians, quiet streets as if lifted from the pages of provincial novels.

Maple Street lay on the edge of town.

Emily walked slowly, scanning the house numbers. Her heart raced, pounding so loudly it seemed to echo across the street.

Number 17. Small, neat, with curtains in the windows and yellow asters in the front garden. The gate was unlatched.

“What should I even say to him?” flickered in her mind. “Hello, I’m your daughter?”

But there was no need to decide.

A tall, silver-haired man emerged onto the porch, a book in his hands. He looked up, and the book slipped from his grasp.

“Vera?” he whispered.

“No… not Vera…”

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

Nikolai Sergeyevich grew pale, clutching the porch railing.

“Oh my God…” was all he managed to utter.

“Come in… please, come in!”

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

“I always knew this day would come,” Nikolai Sergeyevich fussed with cups. “But I envisioned it a thousand different ways…”

“Why didn’t you fight for us?” the question slipped out unbidden.

He froze, holding the coffee pot above the stove.

“Because I was weak,” he replied simply. “Because I believed it would be better this way. The greatest mistake of my life.”

His voice held an earnest pain that pained Emily’s heart.

“Do you know,” Nikolai Sergeyevich looked somewhere above her head, “every year on your birthday I bought a gift. They’re all here…”

He rose and opened the door to the next room. Emily gasped. Neatly stacked against the wall were piles of books, each with a ribbon bookmark.

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

Emily traced her finger along the spines. Thirty years of conversations unspoken, thirty years of unread stories.

“And this…” he pulled out a battered little volume, “is your first publication. A literary almanac, the story ‘Letters to Nowhere’. I recognized your handwriting – you write just like I do.”

“You followed me?” Emily didn’t know whether to be angry or to cry.

“I didn’t follow. I just… lived parallelly. Like a shadow, like a reflection in a crooked mirror.”

They talked until evening. About books and poetry, unrealized dreams and chances lost. About how he had seen her graduation – standing behind trees in the schoolyard. About how he had sent anonymous reviews for her first articles.

As darkness fell outside, Emily suddenly realized that she had been calling him “Dad” for several hours. The word had slipped out naturally, like a breath.

“I should go,” she said, rising. “Mother is probably going mad.”

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

At the gate, he suddenly called out to her:

“Emily! Will you… ever forgive me?”

She turned back. In the dusk, his figure seemed blurred, indistinct.

“I have already forgiven you,” 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.”

A month later, they sat together for the first time – all together. And it turned out that love, like a good book, has no expiration date.

One only needs to muster the courage to open the first page.