“My college sweetheart vanished over Vietnam 55 years ago. Every year, I traveled to a memorial carrying one white rose and our old photograph. But last Tuesday, a stranger was waiting at the airport—holding the exact same picture.”

offering company, not supervision.”

I nearly accepted. Then I told her I preferred the quiet.

I wish now that I’d let her come.

The flight was uneventful. The woman beside me spent most of it showing me photographs of her son’s wedding preparations. By the time we landed, I’d seen eleven pictures of table decorations.

Normal things. A normal morning.

But when I stepped into the small airport’s arrivals hall, I noticed a man standing near the only exit, holding a photograph.

I recognized it

immediately.

Thomas and me, standing