The keepsake

It was early morning when the package arrived. Evelyn found it on her doorstep, nestled between the milk bottles and the newspaper. She picked it up, surprised by its weight. There was no return address, just her name scrawled in neat, careful handwriting.

Evelyn carried the package inside and set it on the kitchen table. The house was quiet, filled with the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. She stared at the package, hesitant to open it. There was something strange about receiving an unmarked package, especially one she wasn’t expecting.

After a few moments, curiosity got the better of her. She fetched a pair of scissors from the drawer and carefully cut through the tape. Inside, wrapped in layers of tissue paper, was an old, leather-bound journal. The cover was worn, its edges frayed, but it was intact.

She opened the journal to the first page. The yellowed paper crackled slightly as she turned it. There, written in the same neat handwriting as on the package, was a name she hadn’t thought about in years: Matthew.

Her breath caught in her throat. Matthew had been her closest friend during her university days, back when life seemed full of possibility. They had spent countless hours together, talking about everything from philosophy to their wildest dreams. But after graduation, they had drifted apart, each caught up in the rush of their separate lives.

Evelyn had always regretted losing touch with Matthew. He had been there for her during some of her darkest moments, a steady presence she had come to rely on. She had often wondered what had become of him, whether he had found happiness, or if he had traveled to the places they had once dreamed about.

She turned the pages of the journal slowly, recognizing the handwriting immediately. It was Matthew’s. The entries were dated, beginning just after they had last seen each other. She began to read, her heart heavy with nostalgia and a tinge of sadness.

Matthew had written about his life after university, about the job he had taken in a small town far from the city they had known. He wrote about the people he had met, the quiet nights he spent alone, and the moments when he had thought of her.

As she read further, Evelyn realized that the journal was more than just a recounting of events. It was a letter, a long, unspoken conversation meant for her. He had written about the things he wished he had told her, about the feelings he had kept hidden. He had been in love with her, but he had never found the courage to say it.

Tears welled up in Evelyn’s eyes as she continued to read. The entries grew more introspective, reflecting on the choices he had made and the paths he hadn’t taken. He had always believed that their lives would intersect again, that they would find each other when the time was right. But life had a way of moving forward, and those moments slipped away like sand through fingers.

The final entry was dated a few weeks ago. Matthew wrote about a terminal illness he had been diagnosed with, a condition he hadn’t known how to face. He had come to terms with it, he said, but there was one thing he needed to do before it was too late: he needed to send her the journal, to tell her everything he had never said.

Evelyn closed the journal, holding it tightly in her hands. She felt an overwhelming wave of grief, not just for the loss of Matthew, but for the years they had lost, the words they had never spoken.

She sat in silence for a long time, the weight of the journal pressing against her heart. When she finally stood, she knew what she needed to do. She had to find Matthew’s family, to let them know how much he had meant to her, and to keep the memory of their friendship alive.

The sun was rising outside, casting a warm, golden light through the windows. Evelyn placed the journal on the table, a keepsake of a bond that had withstood time and distance. She knew that Matthew was gone, but in a way, he was still with her, in the words he had left behind.