The café had been closed for years, its windows dusted in gray, its door chained shut with rusted iron. Yet when Raquel pushed against the door that evening, it groaned open as if it had been waiting for her.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old wood and forgotten memories. Broken chairs leaned against one another, cobwebs framed the corners, and a faded photograph of a young couple still clung stubbornly to the wall. Their faces were blurred, but the way they leaned into each other spoke louder than words.
On the counter, half-buried beneath yellowed newspapers, lay a single envelope. Her fingers trembled as she brushed the dust away and unfolded the fragile paper.
The handwriting was elegant, though uneven, as if written in great haste:
"To the one who finds this — know that love does not die, even when buried by silence. Ours was never meant to end this way. If you are reading this, perhaps the story is not yet finished."
The ink had bled where teardrops once fell.
Raquel's heart pounded. She had only just moved to this town, but already it felt like the shadows knew her name. She folded the letter carefully and whispered into the stillness:
"Whose love was this?"
No answer came — only the soft creak of the floorboards, as though someone unseen was still walking beside her.