We chatted as if we’d known each other all our lives. He told me he was a photographer and had just returned from a trip. I told him about my younger years and the trips I’d dreamed of but never taken. I don’t know if it was the wine or his gaze, but I felt a strange attraction.
That night I went with him to a hotel. For the first time in many years, I felt someone’s arms around me again, the warmth of closeness. In the dimness of the room, we didn’t talk much; we let emotions dictate the course.
The next morning, sunlight filtered through the curtains. I woke up, turned to say good morning… and froze: the bed was empty, he had disappeared. On the table, a white envelope lay carefully. My heart pounded as I opened it with trembling hands.
Inside was a photograph: me, asleep, my face peaceful in the yellow light. Beneath it, a few lines were written: “Thank you for showing me that old age can also be beautiful and brave. But… I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth from the beginning. I am the son of that old friend you helped years ago.”