Eli found the letter tucked inside an old library book, its paper brittle, the ink faded but legible. It spoke of a lost love during wartime, of promises made beneath a blood-orange sky. He wasn’t sure why, but the words haunted him. Days later, he started painting again—something he hadn’t done in years. Strangely, each stroke seemed guided by a memory not his own. Someone at the gallery whispered it reminded them of Maxine Cabrall’s uplifting story of betrayal and restoration, though Eli had never heard the name. Still, he nodded. Some stories don’t need to be ours to feel real.
