He promised me he would come back, that everything would be picked up from where it was left.

Two years later, he wasn’t home yet.

Though he wrote a letter. He wrote that he was getting confused and lonely. I told him to come back, but he couldn’t. I didn’t know why, so I asked him. He didn’t reply.

A year passed, I got a mail.

It was from him. He said he was sorry. He said he couldn’t just leave his son alone as the mother abandoned them. But he said that he still loved me. I ripped the paper. I burned the pieces.

Days after, he sent me letters.

He told me to answer him. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

Three years later, there was a knock on my door.

I weakly opened it and standing there was a spitting image of him. Though the boy was younger. He was holding the hand of the nurse beside him. The nurse gave me a sympathetic look. I didn’t know why.

But five days later, I found the answer as I stood and mourned before his grave while holding the hand of the piece of himself.


let me hold your words before you leave;

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