For me, it happened on a cold December afternoon, when an old envelope slipped from a dusty attic shelf, landing with a faint crackle among forgotten ornaments and boxes of tattered yearbooks.
It reopened a chapter of my life I had assumed was finished—permanently, irrevocably, and without hope.
I wasn’t actively looking for her. Not consciously, anyway. Yet, every year, …
👇 👇 👇 👇 👇
