I gazed at her photo for a long time before murmuring, "I wonder what became of her?"
The next morning, my young neighbor Jake came by to check on me.
He was twenty years old, a student, with messy hair, noisy sneakers, and an extraordinary kindness.
"Are you all right, Mr. Arthur?" he asked, placing a shopping bag on my counter. "You seem worried."
I showed him the photo.
"I just found an old photo of myself at your age," I said, handing it to him.
"That was Evelyn," I added. "My first love."
Jake leaned towards me, feigning surprise.
"Wow! She was magnificent."
"She was everything to me," I told her.
He looked at me for a moment.
"Do you want to try and find her?"
I laughed because it seemed impossible to me.
"Jake, that was sixty years ago."
"So what?" he said, taking out his phone. "These days, people leave traces everywhere."
For days, he helped me search on the internet.
We combed through old school registers, city directories, reunion groups and retirement home lists.
Every night, I told myself not to get my hopes up too much.
Besides, we weren't sure what we were going to find.
Was she married?
Was she still alive?
Suddenly, Jake froze at the kitchen table.
"Arthur," he said softly. "I think I've found her."
My hands tightened on the edge of the table.
I rushed towards the screen.
It was indeed Evelyn.
Older, obviously.
But her eyes still shone and her smile still had the same dimple as I remembered.
Evelyn was alive.
She too was alone, living in a retirement home 1,900 kilometers away.
I remained silent for several minutes.
I stared at his name, my eyes fixed on it.
"Do you want to call first?" Jake asked.
I shook my head.
"No. I prefer to see her in person."
The next morning, I bought a plane ticket.
Jake insisted on coming with me.
"You're going to fail school," I told him.
"This will teach me more about life than any class today," he replied with a smile.
I couldn't contradict him.
Before takeoff, Jake placed a hand on my shoulder.
"Whatever happens, you had the courage to go."
I nodded, but my throat was too tight to reply.
The flight seemed endless, longer than all the years that separated us.
I kept touching the small ring box in my jacket pocket.
It wasn't expensive, and it wasn't my wife's ring.
I had deeply loved my wife, and I will always be grateful for the life we shared.
Before she died, she told me: "When I'm no longer here, please find love and happiness. You deserve all of that and much more."
What I felt for Evelyn belonged to another chapter of my life, but it had never completely disappeared.
I hoped my wife would understand.
Upon our arrival at the retirement home, a woman named Carla greeted us.
"I came to see Evelyn," I said. She glanced at me, then at Jake, as if she knew him.
Yet, she simply smiled.
She led us down a silent corridor to a veranda.
And there, near a window, with a blanket on her lap, sat Evelyn.
My hands began to tremble.
She looked older, of course.
Me too.
But as soon as she looked up, I knew it was really her.
PART 3
