When I turned 62, my life seemed calm and uneventful. My husband had passed away many years ago, and my children, now with families of their own, were too busy to visit often.
I lived alone in a small house on the outskirts of town. In the evenings, I sat by the window, listening to the soft chirping of the birds and watching the golden sunlight glide over the empty street.
It was a peaceful existence, yet beneath this quiet surface, there was something I scarcely dared to admit — loneliness.
That day happened to be my birthday.
No one remembered — not a single call, not even a simple “Happy Birthday.” So, on a sudden impulse, I decided to take the night bus alone into the city.
I had no plan, just the desire to do something out of the ordinary, something a little daring, before time slipped away from me.
I entered a small bar, bathed in warm yellow light. The music was soft, and the air felt gentle. I found a seat in the corner and ordered a glass of red wine.
It had been years since I last drank alcohol; the sharp sweetness spread across my tongue, calming me.
As I watched the people coming and going, I noticed a man walking towards me.
He appeared to be in his early forties, with a few gray strands in his hair and a calm, thoughtful expression. He smiled and politely asked, “May I buy you another drink?”
I laughed and responded lightly, “Don’t call me ‘ma’am’ — I’m not used to it.”
Our conversation flowed easily, as if we had known each other forever. He told me he was a photographer and had just returned from a long trip.
I spoke about my youth, about the travels I once dreamed of but never took.
Perhaps it was the wine, or maybe the way he looked at me, but I felt an unfamiliar attraction — a warmth I hadn’t felt in years.
That night, I got drunk, so he took me to a hotel. For the first time in a long while, I felt the comfort of another person, the feeling of being held. In the dim light, we barely spoke; at some point, I fell asleep without realizing it.
The next morning, sunlight streamed through the thin curtains, casting a gentle warmth on my face.
I opened my eyes and turned around, ready to say “Good morning” — but beside me, it was empty. The pillow still bore a slight indentation, a trace of fading warmth.
On the small table beside the bed lay a white envelope. My hands trembled slightly as I opened it.
Inside was a photograph — me, sleeping, my face calm in the golden glow of the lamp. Below it were a few handwritten lines:
“You slept so peacefully. Last night, I did nothing — I just sat next to you, covered you up, and watched you rest.
I thought you might have had a sad day, and I just wanted to give you a peaceful night.”
I stared at the words, my heart tightening. Below, there were more lines, smaller and written more gently:
“I must confess something. I already knew who you were — not from last night, but long before. Years ago, I heard my father tell stories about the woman he once loved and never forgot.
When I saw you in the bar, I recognized you immediately. My mother passed away two years ago, and since then, my father has lived alone, quietly, like a shadow of himself.
If you are lonely too — if there’s still a small corner in your heart for the past — then please meet him again. You both deserve a little happiness in the time that remains to you.”
At the bottom of the note were a name and a phone number.
I sat silently for a long time. My heart trembled — not from shame or confusion, but from a strange, unexpected tenderness.
I looked again at the photo: the woman in it no longer seemed lonely. She looked as though someone had taken care of her.
That afternoon, I opened an old drawer and found the worn address book I hadn’t touched in years.
My fingers trembled as I dialed the number I once knew by heart.
When the line opened, I heard a hesitant, familiar voice say, “Hello?”
I took a deep breath and smiled through my tears.
“It’s me,” I whispered. “It’s been a long time. Maybe… we still owe each other one last sunset.”
Outside, the late afternoon light poured over the quiet street.
For the first time in many years, my heart felt light — as if life, quietly and gently, had given me a second chance, just when I thought all chances had long since passed.