The attic of our new home had been quiet until that day when sunlight broke through the dusty window and curiosity led us up the creaking stairs. We weren't looking for anything, just exploring, but fate has a way of surprising those who move without expectations.
In an old wooden box, tucked between yellowed paper and forgotten trinkets, we found a stack of letters.
Unsent. Unopened. Untouched.
Most were written in a hand that trembled with age. Some addressed to lovers, some to lost friends, some to dreams that never came true.
You read them aloud, your voice barely above a whisper, like you didn't want to disturb the ghosts that still lingered in those folded pages. Each one held a piece of someone's heart fear, regret, longing.
We sat in silence afterward, holding each other, understanding in that quiet the weight of words unspoken.
Later that night, you gave me a letter of your own. One you wrote long ago, before this life we'd begun together. Before the move, before the vows.
I read it slowly, my hands trembling like the ones that had written the attic letters. It was raw, full of a love that had waited patiently in silence.
When I looked at you, you simply said, "I never needed to send it. I was waiting to live it."
And now we were.