Tonight, I was done clinging to echoes.
As I began packing, my eyes landed on the thick leather-bound album resting on the coffee table. It had been Leonardo’s idea. A private tradition. Every photo inside marked a moment from our years together—business victories, quiet dinners, stolen laughter between deadlines.
He once told me he wanted to give me 9,999 memories before asking me to marry him. Not because of contracts or expectations—but because he wanted me to choose him willingly.
The album was almost complete. Only one blank page remained.
But promises mean nothing when devotion fades.
I carried the album outside to the open clearing behind the estate—the place where bonfires were once lit for celebrations and milestones. Under the cold glow of moonlight, I built a small fire. When the flames caught, I placed the album on top.
The leather curled. Pages blackened. Smoke rose into the air, thick and final, carrying years of hope with it.
Footsteps broke the silence.
I didn’t need to turn around to know it was Leonardo. His presence was unmistakable.
He stopped short when he saw the flames. Panic flashed across his face as he rushed forward.