She looked up at the stranger — not a stranger at all, but the boy from the old photographs. The one her mother said had vanished into the sea.
Then one evening, a stranger walked in, rain dripping from the brim of his hat. He asked for a novel published twenty years ago — the same one her mother used to read to her before bed.
The last chapter wasn't in any printed copy. He pulled out a worn envelope, yellowed with age. Inside, her mother's handwriting: "Lina, if you're reading this, I never left you. Love doesn't end. Not even here. Not even now. Forevermore."
He smiled. "Because your mother wrote it for me. She said if I ever found you again, I should read you the last chapter."
