The weeks that followed felt like a new dawn, though an uncertain and unsteady one. Life hadn't changed drastically. The same small apartment, the same familiar streets, the same faces in the crowd. But something within me had awakened. It was as if the fire that consumed the letters had also burned away the chains that bound me to the past.
I began searching for small rituals to remind myself that I was alive. I wandered aimlessly, letting the cold air clear my mind. I often ended up in a nearby park, sitting under the same tree, watching the wind play with the leaves. Every whisper between the branches seemed to tell me a different story. It was there that I began to write again.
This time, they weren't letters. They were thoughts, memories, fragments of dreams. Sometimes I wrote about Astrid, but other times I wrote about myself: about who I had been before she entered my life, and who I wanted to become now that she wasn't in it. In those moments, I felt that every word I wrote was like a brick in a new structure, something just beginning to take shape.
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An unexpected encounter
One afternoon, while I was writing, a woman approached me. She had curly hair and a book in her hand. Her voice was soft but confident, as if she were used to talking to strangers without feeling uncomfortable.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" she asked, gesturing to an empty spot next to me.
I shook my head and offered her a brief smile. She settled in and opened her book, turning the pages carefully. For long minutes, she said nothing, but occasionally she glanced in my direction, as if she wanted to say something. Finally, she spoke again.
"It's rare to see someone writing by hand these days. Is it a journal?"
It took me a second to answer, still adjusting to sharing my space with someone else.
"Not exactly. Just... thoughts."
She nodded, seemingly satisfied with my response, and went back to her reading. We didn't talk again that day, but there was something about her presence that felt comforting. She wasn't intrusive or demanding; she was simply there, like an extension of the landscape.
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Conversations beneath the tree
Over time, I saw her more often. Sometimes we exchanged brief greetings; other times, we simply shared the shade of the same tree in silence. Her presence was simple, without expectations, but somehow made the park feel less empty.
One day, as we watched children playing in the park, she broke the silence.
"Do you write about someone in particular?" she asked, glancing at my notebook.
Her question caught me off guard. I hesitated before answering, but there was no reason to hide the truth.
"I used to. Now I write more about... what's left afterward."
She smiled, and for a moment, it felt like her gaze could see right through me.
"Sometimes, what's left afterward is more important than what was."
Her words resonated with me in a way I hadn't expected. That night, as I reread my writings, I noticed something different. The words were no longer cries of despair or pleas to the void. They were more like a whisper, a conversation with myself about what it meant to move forward.
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Returning to the cemetery
It was during those days that I decided to do something I had put off for years: visit the cemetery where my parents were buried. The last time I had been there, I was too consumed by grief to truly be present. But this time was different.
The day was overcast when I arrived. The wind carried a faint scent of damp earth, and the silence of the place felt almost tangible. As I walked between the gravestones, memories began flooding back. I remembered their laughter, the moments of comfort, and also the goodbyes I had never felt ready to accept.
When I reached their graves, I knelt in front of them, letting my fingers trace the letters that spelled out their names. The cold, rough texture of the stone connected me to something deeper, something I couldn't quite put into words.
"Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad."
My voice trembled, but I didn't cry. Instead, I spoke. I told them about Astrid, about my fall and my struggle to get back up. I told them about the woman in the park, about the burned letters, and the words I was now writing. I told them I was trying—really trying—to live in a way that would make them proud.
There was no answer, of course, but I didn't need one. As I knelt there, I felt something stir within me. A calmness, a small spark of peace I hadn't felt in a long time. It was as if the weight I had carried for so long had finally begun to lift.
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A new purpose
That night, as I wrote in my notebook, I noticed that my words felt lighter, more filled with hope. They were no longer letters addressed to the past, but bridges to the future. For the first time in years, I wasn't writing to heal—I was writing to build something new.
As the words flowed onto the page, I felt as though I were sketching a map of everything that lay ahead. There was uncertainty, yes, but also a strange sense of anticipation. I closed the notebook with a smile, knowing the path ahead was still long, but for the first time, I was ready to walk it.