Years later, people in the neighborhood would talk about the young woman who raised her son alone, who never seemed bitter, who smiled like someone carrying a secret that made the world gentler.
They didn’t know that some nights, when the stars lined up just right, a flicker of light passed her window—soft, blue, and calm as the sea before dawn.
They didn’t know that her son grew up to study engineering, just like the father he’d never met but somehow always remembered.
They didn’t know that the blue blanket still sat folded on a shelf, warm to the touch no matter the season.
Nora never remarried. She didn’t need to. She said once that love isn’t something you lose; it’s something that shifts shape until you recognize it again.
Every morning, she made coffee for two. One cup went untouched, but she kept pouring it anyway.
And every year, on the anniversary of the accident, she and her son drove to the old road with wildflowers in hand. She’d whisper, “Thank you for keeping your promise,” and her son would smile, not needing to ask who she meant.
Because love never really dies—it just learns new ways to stay.
