Valentine’s Day used to feel magical—when I was in love. But now, single and bitter, I couldn’t stand the hearts, the flowers, or the happy couples everywhere. To escape the romance overload, I drove to my grandma’s quiet town.
Three days before Valentine’s, Grandma called out to me with urgency. She had a letter in her hand but couldn’t read the name. I read it for her—Todd.
Her face went pale. “Todd?” she whispered. “That can’t be.”
Inside was a Valentine’s card: “I still love you.” And a letter:
“My dearest Mary, fifty years ago in Paris, we shared one unforgettable night. You never came back to the station, and I never stopped wondering why. I found you through your granddaughter. If you still remember me, meet me at the New York train station, same day, same time.”
Grandma was in tears. Todd, she said, was the only man she truly loved. They met in Paris, walked the city all night, and promised to reunite a year later—on Valentine’s Day. But her mother died, and she never made it. No phones. No way to tell him.
Now, she refused to go. Too much time had passed. Too much pain.
But I couldn’t let it end like that. So I tricked her. I told her I needed help with an errand and drove straight to the train station.
She was furious when she realized where we were going. Silent. Cold. But she came anyway.
At the station, no sign of Todd—only a young man who approached us. “Are you Mary?” he asked.
He was Todd’s grandson. He had written the letter.
“My grandfather never forgot you,” he said. “He just didn’t have the courage to reach out himself.”
Reluctantly, we followed him to Todd’s apartment. The door opened. Todd stood there—older, grayer—but the way he looked at Grandma said it all.
“Mary…” he breathed.
“You remember me,” she said.
“How could I forget?” he whispered.
They embraced, finally closing the gap that time and fate had opened.
As they held each other, Todd’s grandson turned to me and smiled. “We did good.”
And for the first time in years, Valentine’s Day didn’t feel so lonely after all.
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