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When my husband died last spring, my world collapsed. We’d been married for 22 years, and in that time, I thought I knew every part of him — his coffee preferences, his insomnia quirks, his annoying but endearing habit of humming through chores. Grief turned me into a curator of his life. I kept everything. His shaving kit. His favorite chipped mug. Books he never finished. But I couldn’t bring myself to touch the old oak desk in the corner of our bedroom. It felt too final.
Last week, I finally gathered the courage. I sat down, opened the top drawer, and was flooded with the scent of his cologne — so faint, like he had just left the room. I sorted through the usual: old bills, birthday cards, a collection of pens he never used. Then I noticed a slight groove at the back of the lowest drawer. Curious, I pressed. A click. My heart raced.
A hidden compartment slid open, revealing a stack of letters tied with twine and an old photograph. My hands trembled. The letters, all addressed to someone named “Elise,” were in his handwriting. Confused, I unfolded the first. “I think of you when I’m with her,” it started. My stomach sank.
Hours passed as I read them all. Love letters, tender apologies, desperate promises. They dated back to before we were married and continued for years afterward. He had a whole world hidden in these pages — a woman, a story I never knew. I sat on the floor for what felt like hours, holding onto the photo of her — with him. Smiling.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know who she is, or if she’s still alive. But the man I mourned so deeply maybe never existed.
And now, I have to decide: do I track her down… or let the ghost of their love die with him?
