Sometimes the past stays quiet—until it doesn’t. For me, it came in the form of an old envelope sliding from a dusty attic shelf, reopening a chapter I thought was long closed.
Every December, when the house grew dark by five and the old string lights blinked in the window, Daphne would drift back into my thoughts. Thirty-eight years later, her memory still haunted Christmas. My name is Merrick. I’m fifty-nine now. And I lost the woman I thought I’d grow old with—not because love faded, not because of a fight—but because life got loud, messy, and full of unexpected turns.
Daphne had a quiet, unbreakable strength. She could make anyone in a room feel like the only person there. We met sophomore year—she dropped her pen, I picked it up—and from that small gesture, we were inseparable. People teased us, but we were just right.
Then graduation hit. My dad fell seriously ill. I had to move home. Daphne had landed her dream nonprofit job. We promised the separation was temporary—letters, weekend visits—but then she went silent. No goodbye, no fight. Just nothing. Weeks turned to months. I told myself she’d moved on. Eventually, I moved forward too.
I met Tatum. She was practical, grounded. We married, had two kids, and built a steady life. It wasn’t bad, just different. We divorced later, peacefully, parting as friends. But Daphne never left my thoughts. Every Christmas, I wondered if she was happy, if she remembered us, if she’d ever truly let go.
Then last year, everything changed.
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