Clara had long stopped waiting for Daniel. It had been three years since he vanished without a word, leaving only silence in his place. But on her birthday, at the stroke of midnight, a letter slid under her door. The handwriting was unmistakable—his.

Her hands trembled as she opened it. “Meet me where the stars first found us,” it read. The words carried the same warmth, yet the paper smelled faintly of smoke, like it had traveled through fire.

Against reason, Clara went to the hilltop where they once carved their names into the old oak tree. The night was quiet, the stars sharp against the sky. Then she heard his voice, soft, broken—“I never left you… I was only finding my way back.”

But when she turned, no one was there—only the letter in her hand, now glowing faintly in the moonlight.