The New Beginnings

The letter lay unopened on the mahogany table, the edges of the envelope worn from the journey it had taken to reach here. It had come from a war-torn city across the ocean, rivers and mountains addressed in handwriting that she hadn't seen in years. Sophie stared at it, her chest tightening with a cocktail of fear and longing. Maybe even a pinch of hope? Rather not. Sophie was scared of it. Hope is a dangerous thing to have. And even more dangerous is to hold onto it.                                                     

    She hadn’t heard from Daniel since the day he left.

    “I remember that day like it was yesterday,” she murmured to herself.

    They had fought, of course. Fought like only two people who loved each other desperately could. His decision to volunteer as a foreign aid worker had been a dagger to her plans for their future. She begged him to stay. He begged her to understand. Neither had yielded. And then, one day, he was gone. And so were the pieces of her heart. He took them and never returned. The cruelty of those you cherish most.

    Now, four years later, this letter had arrived. Four lengthy years. The return address was smeared and barely legible. Sophie’s fingers trembled as she picked it up again, tracing the faded ink of his name. The name, never forgotten, engraved into her brain. A name that time could never erase, that even after years still inflicted pain upon her soul.

    The room around her was silent, save for the steady tick of the antique clock on the mantle. The seconds seemed to mock her hesitation. She sat down, exhaled sharply, and finally tore open the envelope, tearing open her wounds in the process, too.

    Inside was a single sheet of paper. The handwriting was unmistakable—rushed and slanted, as if he had written it in a hurry. And he most definitely had.

My Dearest Sophie,

    If you’re reading this, then I must have found a way to get this letter to you. I’ve written it so many times, each version more uncertain than the last. I don’t even know if you’re still at the old address, or if you’ll care to read the words of someone who left you so recklessly.

But I have to try.

    The world here is nothing like what I thought it would be. There is no heroism in this work, no glory in these trenches of despair. There is only survival—patching up wounds that never fully heal, giving hope to people who have forgotten what it feels like. I wanted to save lives, Sophie, but every day, I feel like I’m drowning in the ones I cannot save. The metallic taste of despair fills my lungs, and I cannot breathe properly.

    There’s so much I wish I could tell you about the things I’ve seen. But what haunts me most isn’t the faces of strangers or the endless destruction—it’s the look on your face the night I walked out the door. I carried that with me, Sophie. I carry it still.

    I was wrong to leave you the way I did. And I was a coward for not writing sooner. But I’m writing now because I need you to know… if I don’t make it back, you were the best part of my life. Every memory of you is a light in this darkness.

Please forgive me.

With all my love,

Daniel

    The letter slipped from Sophie’s hands, fluttering to the floor like a broken bird. Her vision blurred as hot tears spilled down her cheeks. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle the sob that threatened to tear from her throat.

    Four years. Four years of silence, of anger and pain, and now this? A letter that felt like both a confession and a farewell. She clutched her chest, as if trying to hold the pieces of herself together. She could not lose more of them or she would crumble.

    What was the point of this? To break her into the tiniest of pieces? To make her miserable until her last breath? Ruin her for life and beyond?

    And then, the sound of a car engine outside. Sophie froze, her tears momentarily forgotten. She stood, heart pounding as she moved to the window. A taxi idled at the curb, its door swinging open.

    Her breath caught as a figure stepped out, shoulders hunched, a duffel bag slung over one arm. His face was gaunt, his hair longer and streaked with silver fleece, but she would have known him anywhere.

    Daniel.

    She flung the door open, the cold night air rushing in. He looked up, startled, as if he hadn’t dared to hope she would be there. And why would he? The meaning of the word “hope” has changed the meaning for him, too.

    For a moment, neither of them spoke or even moved. No one dared to. The weight of the years, the words unsaid, hung heavy between them. Then, with a trembling smile, he took a step forward.

    "I didn’t know if you’d want to see me," he said, his voice hoarse.

    Sophie didn’t answer. She ran to him, all the scars and pains he had caused forgotten, wrapping her arms around him as the tears came again, this time with a ferocity that spoke of both pain and relief. He dropped the duffel bag and held her tightly, as if afraid she might disappear.

    "I’m sorry," he whispered against her hair. "I’m so sorry," he gently kissed the top of her head.

    Sophie pulled back just enough to look at him, too afraid to move more than necessary, her fingers brushing his face, tracing the lines time had etched there. "You’re here," she said, her voice shaking and word stumbling on their way out of her mouth. "That’s all that matters."

And as the clock in the house struck midnight, the past finally began to loosen its grip, and a fragile hope bloomed in its place.