Chapter 3: Letters Never Sent
The summer after Edward left stretched endlessly — a blur of golden light and quiet afternoons that felt too empty. The sea that once shimmered with promise now whispered secrets Freda couldn't bear to hear.
She was sixteen now, and the world seemed colder than she remembered. Every corner of the Vincent estate still carried traces of him — the garden bench where he taught her to sketch, the broken fence he promised to fix, the letterbox that remained stubbornly empty.
Each week, she wrote to him.
Each week, she never sent the letter.
"Dear Edward,
Do you ever think of home? Of the laughter that filled these halls before everything began to fall apart?"
But the words never left her drawer.
Because deep down, she feared he had already forgotten.
Her mother's voice grew brittle with each passing day. The laughter that once echoed through the house had become a ghost of its former self. Her father's business, once a pillar of pride in the community, began to falter under debts and whispered betrayals.
At night, Freda would hear them arguing — words sharp enough to shatter her fragile hope.
She'd close her eyes and imagine Edward standing at the edge of the sea, reading one of her letters, turning back toward her…
But he never came.
Then, one morning, tragedy arrived like a thief.
A carriage — overturned on the slippery hill road.
Her father — gone before sunrise.
The news spread like wildfire, devouring what little peace remained. The Vincent name, once respected, became a cautionary tale of pride and loss. Freda's mother withdrew completely, her health declining with each passing week.
And Freda… she learned to stand alone.
One evening, as she sorted through her father's papers, she found an unopened envelope sealed with a foreign crest. Her hands trembled as she unfolded it — Edward's handwriting, unmistakable even after years.
"Freda,
I wanted to come back sooner, but fate had other plans. If you ever read this, know that my promise still stands — I will return for you."
But the letter had arrived too late. The postmark was from months ago.
He had written. He had tried.
And now, with her mother's illness and the weight of the family's ruin, Freda's heart broke all over again.
She pressed the letter to her chest, tears soaking the faded ink.
"You waited for me," she whispered, voice trembling. "Then it's my turn now."
From that day, she carried his promise like a secret flame — through grief, through loneliness, through every silent night.
Because deep in her heart, she still believed…
Love, once true, always finds its way back home.