At 78, I reached a pivotal moment in life where years of regret and unfulfilled dreams pushed me to take a bold leap—I sold everything I owned, from my apartment and old pickup truck to my cherished vinyl records. These possessions once held deep meaning, but now they felt like chains holding me back. My decision was fueled by a single purpose: to reunite with Elizabeth, the love of my youth whose memory had lingered beneath the surface of time and circumstance. This choice carried both hope and a quiet sadness, as rekindling a past romance after so many years was as daunting as it was tempting. The spark that ignited this journey came from an unexpected letter simply stating, “I’ve been thinking of you,” signed by Elizabeth. Those words unlocked a flood of memories—laughter by the lake, starry nights, and a connection that never truly faded. Her letter shattered the dull rhythm of my days, reviving a flame I thought was long extinguished. From that moment, I began writing back, our correspondence growing from brief notes to intimate exchanges filled with shared memories and unspoken longing. Eventually, Elizabeth sent me her address, and with that, I sold my home, my truck, and all I had, buying a one-way ticket to a new beginning rooted in the hope of reclaiming what time had taken. Boarding the plane, I imagined the moment I’d see her smile again, feeling a mix of excitement and fear. But mid-flight, fate intervened cruelly—a sharp pain in my chest overwhelmed me, and consciousness slipped away. As darkness took hold, I was caught between the hope of reunion and the uncertain future, suspended in a fragile moment where dreams and reality blurred.