Echoes of the Past

The following week came with unexpected news. Elena received a letter—one written in her father's old handwriting, delivered late by an estate lawyer. It had been tucked away, meant to reach her on the anniversary of his death.

Her hands trembled as she held the envelope, sitting on the edge of the bed while Aidan leaned against the wall, watching her carefully.

"Want me to leave?" he asked softly.

She shook her head. "Stay. Please."

She broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

> My dearest Elena,

If you're reading this, it means I'm no longer there to scold you for working too late or to remind you that you're still my little girl, no matter how far you run.

I don't know where life has taken you, but I hope you've stopped punishing yourself for the choices you had to make. You're allowed to be happy, Lena. You're allowed to live.

There's something else. In the old workshop back home—the one near the olive trees—I left something for you. Something that might help you understand me better. And maybe, help you forgive me.

All my love,

Dad.

Her throat closed. For so long, she'd kept her father's memory at arm's length, believing his silence in her last months abroad had meant disappointment.

But this letter… it was proof he had never stopped caring.

"I have to go back," she whispered.

Aidan was beside her in seconds. "Then I'm going with you."

She looked up at him, surprised.

"I want to be there for whatever you find," he said. "Even if it's just you and old tools covered in dust."

So they booked the flight. By the next evening, they were on a plane headed to the village she had sworn she wouldn't return to.

---

The olive trees stood just as they had in her childhood, their silver-green leaves whispering secrets in the wind. The old workshop was nestled between them, leaning slightly, tired with age.

The door creaked open.

Dust danced in the afternoon light pouring through the cracked window.

And on the old workbench, beneath a faded cloth, sat a wooden box.

She opened it with shaking hands.

Inside were old sketches—her father's designs, ideas for houses, bridges, inventions that never made it off paper. And then, beneath it all, a tiny carved music box.

She wound it once.

A familiar lullaby played.

The one he used to hum when she was little.

Tears spilled down her cheeks. Aidan stood beside her, silent, letting her feel.

And in that tiny, forgotten place, something inside her began to heal.

Aidan touched her shoulder gently. "You ready to go home?"

She nodded, wiping her face. "Yeah. I think I finally know where that is."