Elizabeth was the love of my life. I lost her 40 years ago—my fault, my biggest mistake. I never forgave myself.
Then, out of nowhere, she wrote to me. “I’ve been thinking of you.” God, if only she knew—I never stopped thinking about her. One letter turned into dozens, bringing me back to life. Then she sent me her address. That was it.
At 78, I sold everything and bought a one-way ticket. On the plane, my hands shook. I was so close. Then—pain. Burning tightness in my chest. Voices, hands, then… nothing.
I woke up to bright lights, beeping machines. A nurse whispered, “You had a heart attack mid-flight.” Panic hit. “Elizabeth.”
She handed me a phone. A voicemail.
“James, I’ve been counting the days. If you’re hearing this, you must be on your way. Please, hurry. I don’t have much time left.”
Tears blurred my vision. No. Not again. I ripped out the IV. I had to get to her. I didn’t care how. I just had to see her. One last time.
