I was 78 when I sold my apartment, my pickup, even my beloved vinyl records. Not out of desperation, but hope. A letter had arrived—simple, handwritten, tucked between bills. “I’ve been thinking of you,” it said. Elizabeth. My first love. The one who never quite left my heart.
We began exchanging letters, peeling back decades with each word. She spoke of her garden, her piano, and the way she still remembered my teasing about her terrible coffee. Then came her address. That was all I needed. I bought a one-way ticket. No return. No backup plan. Just love.
On the plane, I imagined her laugh, the tilt of her head when she listened. But halfway through the flight, pain gripped my chest. A heart attack. The plane made an emergency landing in Bozeman, Montana. I woke up in a hospital, tethered to machines, greeted by a kind nurse named Lauren.
“You can’t fly for now,” she said gently.
I could’ve given up. But something in me refused. I stayed in Bozeman, recovering slowly, writing to Elizabeth again. She wrote back, urging me not to lose hope. Lauren helped me find a local rehab center. Days turned into weeks. I walked, I healed, I waited.
Then, one morning, a letter arrived. “I’m coming to you,” it read.
Elizabeth stepped off the bus in Bozeman, her silver hair catching the light, her eyes still holding that spark. We embraced like no time had passed. Fate had rerouted me, but not denied me. In the end, love didn’t wait at the destination—it met me on the detour.
