Having missed her train, Emily decided to return home without calling. As she stepped inside her house, tears began to stream down her face uncontrollably. The chilly October wind whipped sharp droplets of rain against her skin. She watched the train disappear and felt a surge of frustration inside her. She had been late.

For the first time in fifteen years of regular journeys home, she was late.

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

“The next train’s not until morning,” the ticket clerk stated indifferently, hardly looking up from her crossword puzzle. “Want to take the bus instead?”

“Bus…,” Emily grimaced. “Three hours bouncing along a bumpy 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 just head home since she always had her keys with her.

The taxi sped through the deserted streets, and the city outside seemed like a backdrop—unreal and flat. The driver mumbled something about the weather and traffic, but Emily wasn’t listening. A strange sense of foreboding was growing inside her—it was either anxiety or anticipation.

Her old house greeted her with darkened windows. Climbing the stairs, she inhaled familiar scents from her childhood: frying potatoes from the third floor, laundry detergent, old wood. Yet today, amidst that comforting symphony, there was a discordant note.

The key turned in the lock with unexpected heaviness, as if the door was resisting her entry. The hallway was dark and silent—her parents were clearly already asleep. Emily tiptoed into her room, trying not to make a sound.

Switching on the desk lamp, she looked around. Everything was as usual: the bookshelves, the old writing desk, and the plush teddy bear on the bed—a relic from her childhood that her mum had never parted with. But something felt off. Something had changed, imperceptibly yet distinctly.

Perhaps it was the silence? Not the typical night hush, but a different kind—thick and sticky, like the stillness before a storm. It felt as though the house was holding its breath, waiting for something.

She took her laptop out of her bag—work wasn’t going to do itself. But as she reached for the socket behind the desk, her hand accidentally brushed against a box. It toppled off the shelf, spilling its contents onto the floor.

Letters. Dozens of yellowed envelopes with faded stamps.

And a photograph—old, with dog-eared corners. Her young mother—just a girl!—smiling as she cuddled against the shoulder of an unfamiliar man.

The first tear fell onto the photograph before Emily even realised she was crying.

With trembling hands, she unfolded the first letter. The handwriting was bold and confident, completely foreign to her.

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

Her heart raced rapidly. Emily grabbed the next letter, and then another.

Dates—1988, 1990, 1993… Her entire childhood, her whole life had been outlined in these letters, penned in someone else’s script.

“…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. Vera, maybe the time has come…?”

A lump formed in her throat. Emily unconsciously switched on the desk lamp again, the yellow light illuminating an old photo from the darkness. Now she studied the stranger’s face with avid attention. A high forehead, intelligent eyes, a slightly mocking smile… Goodness, she had his nose! And that characteristic tilt of the head…

“Emily?” her mother’s quiet voice made her flinch. “Why didn’t you let me know that…”

Vera froze in the doorway, her eyes fixing on the scattered letters. The colour drained from her face.

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

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

Her mother slowly sank onto the edge of the bed. In the light of the lamp, it was clear how her hands trembled.

“Nicholas… Nicholas Sergeyevich Vorontsov,” her voice sounded muffled, as if coming from another room. “I thought I would never… that this story was left in the past…”

“A story?”

Emily almost whispered the word, almost shouting in disbelief.

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

“Because it had to be!” her mother’s voice cracked with pain.

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

Silence enveloped the room like a heavy blanket. Somewhere in the distance, a train rumbled—the very one Emily had missed today.

A coincidence? Or was fate insisting that the truth come to light?

They stayed up until morning. Outside, the sky gradually brightened, while inside, the bitter scent of cold tea and unspoken words lingered.

“He was a literature teacher,” Vera spoke softly, as if afraid to disturb the memories. “He arrived at our school on a teaching assignment. Young, handsome, he could recite Blok by heart… All the girls were in love. Emily watched her mother, struggling to recognise her. Where had that ever-present composure gone? Before her sat another woman—a young, infatuated girl with bright eyes.

“And then…,” her mother stumbled.

“Then I realized I was pregnant.

You have no idea what began after that! His parents opposed a ‘provincial fling’, mine insisted on the shame…”

“And you just… gave up?” Emily couldn’t contain her bitterness.

“He was transferred to another city. Urgently, without a word. And within a month, I was introduced to your…,” she paused, “to Sergeant Peter. A good man, reliable…”

“Reliable,” echoed in Emily’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 pain broke through in her mother’s voice. “It was everything that was left. He wrote every month, then less frequently… but he wrote.”

Emily picked up the last letter.

The date was three years ago.

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

“Lakewood,” Emily said slowly. “Isn’t that four hours away from here?”

Her mother sat up sharply.

“Don’t even think about it! Emily, please don’t stir up the past…”

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

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

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

For the first time during this endless night, she felt that she was making the right choice.

Lakewood greeted Emily with a biting wind and a light drizzle. The small town appeared frozen in time: old two-story houses, sparse passersby, and quiet streets, as if lifted from the pages of provincial novels.

Maple Street turned out to be on the outskirts.

Emily walked slowly, peering at house numbers. Her heart raced so fast that it felt as if the thumping could be heard all down the street.

House 17. Small, neat, with curtains at the windows and yellow asters in the front yard. The gate was unlocked.

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

But she didn’t have to decide.

A tall, silver-haired man emerged onto the porch, a book in his hands. He raised his eyes, and the book slipped from his grip.

“Vera?” he whispered.

“No… not Vera…”

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

Nicholas Sergeyevich paled and grabbed the porch railing.

“Goodness…” he could only manage to say.

“Come in… come in!”

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

“I always knew this day would come,” Nicholas Sergeyevich fumbled with the cups.

“But I imagined it a thousand times differently…”

“Why didn’t you fight for us?” The question escaped unbidden.

He paused, holding a coffee pot over the stove.

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

In his voice was such raw pain that Emily’s heart ached.

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

He stood and opened the door to the next room. Emily gasped. Neatly stacked books lined the wall, each marked with a ribbon.

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

Emily ran her fingers along the spines. Thirty years of unfulfilled conversations, thirty years of unread stories.

“And this…” he took out a worn little volume, “your first publication. A literary almanac, the story ‘Letters to Nowhere.’
I recognised your handwriting—you write like I do.”

“You followed my life?” Emily didn’t know if she should be angry or cry.

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

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

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

“I have to go,” she stood up. “Mum is probably frantic.”

“Tell her…” he hesitated. “Actually, no. I will write. For the last time.”

As she reached the gate, he suddenly called out to her:

“Emily! Will you… ever forgive me?”

She turned back. In the twilight, his figure appeared blurred, indistinct.

“I have already forgiven you,” she replied softly. “But we have a lot to catch up on.”

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

It contained just three words: “Come. I wait.”

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

One only needs the courage to turn to the first page.