I Could Have Been a Beautiful Epilogue, But She Made Me Just a Short Last Chapter

The woman was almost certain that she didn't need to check the mailbox when she returned from shopping, but she did so despite the armful of bags she had with her. She had bought more than she had intended and wondered if she had finally hit menopause, because she had a craving for things she didn't particularly like. She only made sure that the envelope was indeed addressed to her and threw it into one of the bags. It took her a while to unpack the purchases, and it was only when she sat down with a coffee that she remembered about the mysterious letter. More minutes passed before she found her glasses, and only then did she look at the lovely package.

She carefully opened it with a knife and pulled out a stack of densely written pages, from between which a photo fell out. She easily recognized her step niece on it, and she thought that after that postcard she would never write to her again. With trembling hands, she grabbed the first page and began to read. Hortensja shared her story with her, the fragment after the accident that the woman didn't know. She cried while reading, just like the girl on the other side of the world when she wrote it. She would give anything to hug her now, but she was still happy that she received this letter, which could be the beginning of renewing their contact.

Her husband, returning from work, found her at the table when she had already mastered the first strong emotions and was reading this story for the third time. She didn't even notice that he was at her side and was looking curiously over her shoulder.

“Did she really write again?” he asked, picking up one of the pages. “Can I read it too?”

“She wrote, 'dear aunt and uncle', so I guess so, but look how happy she is in this photo.” She shoved it under his nose. “Our Hortuś is back. She even gave me the address. God, I have to write her back,” she was getting emotional again. “And prepare a package for her. What do you think she might be missing there?”

The man didn't even bother to answer, because his wife was already looking for a suitable box and preparing supplies. He just remembered the frame and put a photo of Hortensja and Hikaru in it, then put it on the shelf next to the immortalized memory of her parents during a barbecue together years ago.

“Be happy like that all the time,” he said with a smile, and sighed heavily when his wife started to bombard him with questions about what can and cannot be sent by airmail.

THE END