The next morning, I called Anna.
We didn’t talk about the past.
We talked about coffee.
She invited me to visit again.
I said I would.
And I kept that promise.
Over the following months, Anna and I became friends.
Not lovers.
Not the young couple we had once been.
Something different.
Something quieter.
Something built on truth.
Sometimes we talked about the lives we might have had.
But we never tried to live them.
There was no point.
Our lives had already happened.
Instead, we became two people who finally gave each other something we had been denied for decades.
Closure.
One year after Carol’s death, I returned to her grave.
I brought flowers.
I stood there for a long time.
Then I said:
“I found her.”
The wind moved through the trees.
“I heard everything.”
I took a deep breath.
“I was angry with you.”
I paused.
“I still am, a little.”
