When my husband, Marco, died in a car crash, my world shattered. We had a little boy together, and I had no choice but to keep going. I cried in the shower, smiled through school pickups, and worked long hours just to keep my mind off the emptiness. Slowly, painfully, I started piecing life back together. I thought the worst was behind me.
Then one random Tuesday afternoon, I got a text. It was from Marco’s number. Just one word:
Hello.
My heart stopped. I stared at the screen, unable to breathe. The photo of him still saved in my contacts made it worse—his smile looking back at me like he was right there.
Before I could process it, another message came through. It was a GPS location. Coordinates.
I don’t know what possessed me, but I grabbed my keys and drove. My mind kept flipping between logic and hope. Was someone playing a cruel joke? Or… was I about to discover something I couldn’t explain?
The drive was long, winding, and eerily quiet. My phone battery was dropping fast, but I didn’t dare stop. Finally, I reached it—a small, weathered house at the edge of a wooded road.
I got out. My legs felt like lead. Every step toward the door was a battle between dread and desperate longing.
I knocked.
A moment passed.
The door opened—
—and standing there was a man. Same height. Same broad shoulders. Same brown eyes… Marco’s eyes.
But older. His hair was streaked with gray, and there were deep lines in his face.
He froze, just like I did.
Finally, he spoke. His voice was shaky, but there was no mistaking it.
“Anna… you weren’t supposed to find me.”