They didn't touch, but something shifted in the workshop that afternoon. It wasn't dramatic no embrace, no tearful reconciliation but a subtle realignment, as though the air itself had grown thinner, easier to breathe. A wall Elena had spent five years constructing began to crack, letting light seep through the spaces between her defenses.
Marcus moved with quiet confidence among his tools, showing her his work with a pride that wasn't boastful but lived-in, steady. He lifted the cover off a broad oak dining table commissioned for a family in Albany, the surface so smooth it reflected the light spilling from the high windows. Next was a bookshelf destined for the local library, its carved edges echoing the town's historic trim. Then he opened a small velvet-lined drawer on a jewelry box, revealing dovetail joints so seamless Elena wondered if the wood had grown that way naturally.
Her breath caught. "Marcus, it's beautiful."
He shrugged lightly, but his fingers lingered on the lid, tracing the grooves as though they carried meaning only he could read. "I had a lot of time to practice." His voice carried no bitterness, only the gravity of truth. "After you left, I needed something to keep my hands busy. Something that required all of me, so I couldn't think about… other things."
Elena's chest tightened. She knew that kind of work fierce, relentless, all-consuming. Her own career had been the same balm and punishment. The more complicated the case, the more hours she could spend at the office, the less space there was for the silence that threatened to drown her whenever she thought of Millbrook.
She stepped toward a rocking chair in the corner, its lines graceful, its craftsmanship flawless. She trailed her fingers along the armrest and felt the faint echo of his touch. Those hands steady now over sandpaper and chisel had once moved across her skin with the same careful devotion. The memory flooded her so suddenly she had to look away.
"I should go," she murmured as the sun slanted lower through the workshop windows, painting the air gold. "I have calls to make, arrangements to handle for the house."
Marcus nodded, wiping his palms on a rag. He didn't press, didn't ask her to stay, but walked her back through the house and to the front door with the same quiet patience he'd shown all day.
"Elena?" he said as she stepped onto the porch.
She turned back, bracing herself for words that might undo her.
"I'm glad you came today." His eyes flicked toward the house behind him. "To see this place, I mean. It helps, somehow. Knowing that you know it exists."
Something cracked inside her, deeper than before. She wanted to say more, to bridge the aching space between them, to promise she wasn't going to vanish again. But her tongue felt heavy, her courage brittle.
"Thank you for showing me," she managed. Her voice was hushed, reverent. "It's beautiful, Marcus. Everything you dreamed it could be."
He gave the smallest of nods, and she forced herself down the stone path, each step heavier than the last.
Back at her grandmother's house, the silence pressed close around her. The day's weight settled onto her shoulders until she thought she might collapse under it. The life Marcus had built without her was everything they had once planned together, down to the smallest details. It was both a love letter and a rebuke, proof that he had kept faith with a future she had abandoned.
Her phone was ringing on the counter, sharp and insistent. She snatched it up and saw her assistant's name flashing.
"Elena, thank God," the woman blurted as soon as the line connected. "We have a crisis. The Reynolds merger is falling apart, and they're specifically asking for you. Can you be back tomorrow? I know you said you needed the week, but"
"Give me until Monday," Elena cut in, surprising herself with the firmness in her tone.
"Monday?" The disbelief on the other end was palpable. "Elena, I don't think you understand. This could cost the firm millions if it goes south. Your reputation"
"Will survive if I take the weekend to bury my grandmother properly," Elena snapped, sharper than she intended. "I'll be back Monday morning. Handle what you can until then."
She hung up before the protests could escalate, her pulse hammering.
What had she just done? She never turned down a crisis. Work had always been her shield, her weapon, her excuse. And yet she had bought herself two more days, time she couldn't explain and dared not examine too closely.
What did she expect to happen between now and Monday? That she and Marcus would resolve five years of silence and heartbreak? That she could undo her cowardice with a handful of stolen conversations?
Her practical mind scoffed, cataloguing reasons it was foolish. But beneath that, her heart whispered of risks worth taking, of doors that might not open twice.
Restless, Elena turned to the task of sorting her grandmother's papers. She pulled open drawers, sifted through neat stacks of bills and recipes, contracts and receipts. She was looking for anything tied to the house's sale, any record of the choices Rosa had made before the end.
Instead, she found a box.
It was tucked into the back of a cabinet, worn cardboard held together with string. Her name was written on the top in Marcus's handwriting familiar, unmistakable.
Her breath stilled. With trembling hands, she pulled it onto the table and loosened the knot.
Inside were letters. Dozens of them. All addressed to her, all stamped and sealed, yet each one marked Return to Sender.
Her throat tightened.
She lifted the first envelope, dated six months after she'd left.
Elena,
I keep starting letters to you and throwing them away. What do you say to someone who disappeared from your life without explanation? I'm angry and hurt and confused, but underneath all of that, I'm worried about you. Are you safe? Are you happy? Do you ever think about us?
I bought a house. Our house, the one we talked about. I know it's crazy, buying a house for a ghost, but I couldn't let someone else have it. I keep thinking maybe if I make it perfect, if I create the life we planned, you'll come back to it. To me.
I love you. I know you don't want to hear that, but I needed to say it. I love you, and I don't know how to stop.
Marcus
Elena's tears blurred the ink.
She opened another, dated two years later. His words were shorter, more controlled, but no less raw.
Elena,
The house is coming along. I finished the kitchen, the garden's blooming. Sometimes I catch myself talking to you out loud, like you're standing here. I wonder if I'll ever stop.
Marcus
And another.
Elena,
I tried dating. It didn't work. I kept comparing everyone to you, and it wasn't fair to them. I don't know if I'm broken or just stubborn. Maybe both.
Marcus
Her chest heaved as she tore through the pile, years of his life unfolding in reverse. The letters grew fewer, the handwriting wearier, but they never stopped completely.
The last one was dated just three months ago.
Elena,
Rosa is sick. Really sick this time. The doctors don't think she has long. I thought you should know, in case… in case you want to say goodbye.
I won't mail this. I've learned my lesson about trying to force you to come home. But if you ever do come back, if you ever read this, know that your grandmother loved you until her last breath. And so did I.
Always,
Marcus
The letter shook in her hands. She pressed it against her chest as sobs tore free, raw and unrelenting.
He had known her grandmother was dying. He had tried to tell her, even as he told himself he wouldn't. His silence had been its own kind of mercy, and its own kind of prison.
Just as her silence had been.
They had both been prisoners, locked in cells of pride, fear, and stubbornness.
The question now wasn't whether the keys existed.
It was whether either of them was brave enough to use them.