We discovered them by accident tucked in a wooden box beneath a pile of old linens in the attic. Love letters. Dozens of them, written decades ago by someone who had once lived where we now did.
You read them aloud, voice trembling with wonder. Each word spoke of a love that endured distance, war, and time. And when you finished, you looked at me and said, "Let's write our own."
So we did. Each night, a letter. Folded. Slipped under each other's pillows. Words not always perfect, but always sincere. We built a collection of pages that held us, that told the truth our lips sometimes struggled to speak.
And in that attic, surrounded by stories both past and present, we wrote ourselves into forever.