Emma hadn't meant to find the letter.
She was looking for an old art book in the bottom of her suitcase — the one she hadn't fully unpacked since moving into Alexander's apartment three weeks ago.
The envelope slipped from the folds of a hoodie she barely wore.
Her name was written in her mother's handwriting.
No stamp. No address. Just: "Emma. For later."
She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the paper like it might disappear.
Then, with careful fingers, she opened it.
"If you're reading this, it means you found him."
"I'm glad."
Emma swallowed.
"I never told Alexander the truth because I was afraid. Not of him — but of who I was back then. I didn't think I was good enough for him. And I didn't want to be someone he pitied."
"But you… you're better than both of us. You're the best thing I ever created."
Tears blurred the ink. Emma read on.
"He loved things with sharp edges. Lines. Vision. Maybe that's what drew him to me. But he'll love you differently. He'll love you in full color."
"Don't close the door just because I was too afraid to open it."
"Let him know you."
At the bottom, scrawled in fading ink:
"P.S. If Lena Hart is still in his life — trust her. She'll teach you how to be brave."
Emma found Lena in the studio, hunched over a scale model. Her hair was tied up, pencil behind her ear.
"Can I show you something?" Emma asked.
Lena looked up and smiled. "Of course."
She handed her the letter.
Lena read it in silence. Her fingers didn't tremble — but her expression softened into something Emma hadn't seen before.
Grief. And admiration.
"She was a complicated woman," Lena said gently.
"I know."
"She loved you."
"I think she wanted me to learn how to become someone she couldn't be."
Lena nodded. "And do you feel like you're becoming her… or becoming you?"
Emma thought about that.
Then she smiled. "Me. Finally."
That night, Emma cooked dinner — badly.
Pasta that stuck together. Garlic bread that was more blackened toast. Alexander ate it all anyway, and said it was "soulful."
They laughed around the table. Like a family.
And after the dishes were washed, Emma handed Alexander the letter.
He read it once.
Then again.
And then he sat in the armchair by the window, holding it to his chest.
"She always knew how to vanish," he said softly.
"But this time," Emma whispered, "she left something behind."
He looked at her then — really looked.
"You're not a shadow of her, Emma. You're the light she never let in."
Later that evening, Lena curled beside Alexander in bed.
"She was right," he said.
"About what?"
"You are teaching Emma how to be brave."
Lena kissed his shoulder, heart full and heavy all at once.
"She's teaching me, too."
The next morning, Emma woke early and opened her sketchbook.
She drew a new house.
This one wasn't made of memory or fantasy.
It was a home.
With three windows.
A wide, open door.
And light in every room.