Following the tragic loss of my spouse, Emily, in an aviation accident, I had to learn to coexist with sorrow.

For over two decades, I grieved my lost love, unaware that destiny had arranged one final encounter and an earth-shattering revelation I could never have anticipated.

Standing before Emily’s tombstone, my fingertips traced the icy marble surface.

Nearly a quarter of a century had passed, yet the anguish remained as sharp as ever.

The scarlet roses I had placed starkly contrasted with the stone’s ashen shade, resembling crimson droplets on an untouched frost.

“I failed you, Em,” I murmured, my voice laden with remorse. “I should have trusted you.”

A sudden vibration from my phone disrupted my reflections. I contemplated ignoring it but instinctively checked the screen.

“Abraham?” My business associate, James, spoke through the speaker. “Apologies for disturbing you on your memorial day.”

“It’s alright.” I swallowed hard, striving for composure. “What do you need?”

“Our recruit from Germany arrives this afternoon. Could you collect her? I’m tied up in meetings all day.”

Casting a final glance at Emily’s grave, I nodded. “Yeah, I can handle that.”

“Appreciate it, man. Her name’s Elsa. Flight gets in at 2:30.”

“Send me the flight info. I’ll be there.”

The airport’s arrival area buzzed with movement as I clutched a quickly scrawled sign reading “ELSA.”

A young woman with golden-blonde hair approached, pulling a rolling suitcase behind her.

The way she moved, her posture—something about it struck an inexplicable chord in me.

“Sir?” Her voice carried a faint accent. “I’m Elsa.”

“Welcome to Chicago, Elsa. Please, call me Abraham.”

“Abraham.” She smiled, and for an instant, the world seemed to tilt. That expression, so eerily familiar, stirred something deep within me.

“Shall we grab your luggage?” I suggested, shaking off the odd sensation.