Saturday evening brought one of those dusky skies Penelope always secretly loved—the kind where the light looked faded at the edges, like the day was trying not to let go.
Julian texted her at 6:04 p.m.
"Come over. I found something."
That was all it said.
No explanation. No punctuation. Just that quiet urgency she was starting to recognize in him.
She didn't even tell the girls this time.
She just went.
He was waiting in the backyard, sitting on a weathered blanket spread across the grass. A flashlight rested beside him, and between them: a shoebox, worn and taped up around the corners."I found it in the attic," he said, tapping the lid. "It's full of old letters."
"Whose?" she asked, sitting down.
"Not sure. No names. Just… stories."
He opened the box carefully, like it was something sacred. Inside were folded pages, most yellowed and soft, some still crisp. He handed her one.
The handwriting was looping, messy in a romantic kind of way.
> "I saw you by the pier again. You didn't see me. I wanted to say something, but I couldn't. So I just stood there and loved you from far away."
Penelope looked up. Julian was already watching her."They're like ghost stories," he said. "But real ones. The kind that don't haunt houses—they haunt people."
She nodded. "Like almosts."
Julian smiled faintly. "Exactly."
They read for hours, passing letters back and forth. Some were funny, others full of heartbreak, longing, tiny glimpses into lives that had nothing to do with them—and yet, felt close anyway.
At some point, Penelope rested her head on his shoulder.
Julian didn't move.
The night grew colder. The flashlight dimmed. But neither of them said a word about leaving.
Because sometimes, sitting beside someone in the quiet—reading old love letters by flashlight—feels more intimate than any kiss.And Penelope felt it.
The beginning of something that could either break her… or save her.