The soft creak of the hinges lingered in the air as the old woman pushed the door shut. The evening wind, cool and deliberate, slipped through the narrow crack before it clicked into place. The young man stood in the middle of the dimly lit room, uncertain whether to sit or to wait.
She smiled—a small, knowing smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her wrinkled hands rested on the wooden door for a moment longer than necessary, as if she were holding something back. The house smelled faintly of rain and old books, with the distant hum of a clock ticking somewhere down the hall.
“You came,” she said at last, her voice soft but steady.
He nodded, though he wasn’t sure why he had. The letter had arrived two days earlier—no return address, just an uneven script inviting him to “visit before it’s too late.” He had almost thrown it away. Almost.
Now he was here, standing in the home of a woman who claimed to have known his mother.
“You look just like her,” the old woman murmured. She stepped closer, her eyes scanning his face with something between recognition and sorrow. “Same eyes. Same hesitation.”
He frowned. “You knew her well?”
Her smile flickered. “Better than most. But not as well as I should have.”
The words hung heavy in the air. Somewhere, a floorboard groaned, and the light from the single lamp trembled. The old woman turned away, her hands trembling just enough for him to notice.
“Follow me,” she said.
They moved down a narrow corridor lined with framed photographs, most of them too faded to make out clearly. He caught glimpses of faces—smiling, turning, some looking directly at the camera, others caught mid-laugh. Then, one frame caught his eye.
It was his mother. Younger. Standing beside the old woman.
He stopped. “When was this taken?”
The old woman didn’t answer. She pushed open a door at the end of the hall. Inside, the room was filled with stacks of newspapers, dusty trunks, and a small wooden chest at the center.
“She left something,” the woman said. “Said you’d come for it when you were ready.”
He hesitated. “She’s been gone for years.”
The old woman’s eyes softened. “Time doesn’t erase promises.”
She reached for the chest, her fingers pausing just above the latch. “Once I open this,” she said quietly, “you’ll understand why she left… and why I couldn’t tell you sooner.”
Then—she lifted the lid.