Someone was already sitting in our booth.
A young man, no older than twenty-five, sat rigidly, glancing at the clock every few seconds. His hands clutched a small envelope so tightly it looked like it might tear.
The moment he saw me, he stood abruptly.
“Ma’am,” he said, voice trembling, “are you… Helen?”
I hesitated, my heart suddenly unsteady.
“Yes,” I replied quietly. “Can I help you?”
He swallowed hard, then stepped forward and extended the envelope with both hands, like it was something sacred.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.
I took it without thinking.
The paper felt familiar before I even opened it.
My fingers trembled as I unfolded the letter inside.
It was Peter’s handwriting.
“Happy birthday, my love.
I knew you’d come back here. You always keep your promises.
But there’s something I never told you… and you deserve the truth.”
My breath caught.
