Chapter 12

(Epilogue)

Five years later, I married and had children. My wife is an ordinary elementary school teacher—not one for sweet talk, but she always leaves a warm bowl of soup for me when I work late.

One day, while sorting through old things, my daughter found that old watch.

"Daddy, does this still work?"

I wound it up, and the second hand actually started moving again. Inside the watch case, I noticed something I'd never seen before—a tiny engraving on the battery cover, so small you'd need a magnifying glass.

My daughter, ever curious, grabbed one from my desk.

"To James. My first and forever audience. —S."

I stared at it for a long time.

"Daddy? Why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying, sweetheart. The watch just has dust in it."

She giggled and ran off to show her mother.

My wife glanced at the watch, then at me. She didn't ask. She simply poured me a cup of tea and sat beside me.

That's the thing about the right person—they don't need explanations for your tears.

Later that evening, I saw Sophia on television. Not as a celebrity—as a theater director. She'd won an independent arts award for a production she wrote and staged herself.

The interviewer asked, "What inspired this play?"

Sophia smiled—a real smile, not the camera-ready one.

"It's about a girl who made a wish on a shooting star and the boy who kept every promise she forgot."

"Sounds romantic."

"It's not. It's a tragedy. But it's also a love letter."

"To whom?"

She paused. Looked directly into the camera.

"To the girl I was."

I turned off the television.

My wife looked up from her book. "Who was that?"

"Someone I used to know."

"Pretty."

"She is."

My wife smiled and went back to reading.

I placed the old watch back in its case, tucked it into the top shelf of the closet, and closed the door.

Some stories don't have happy endings. But they have honest ones.

And sometimes, that's enough.