The Last Letter

The train was then long gone from the station, but Ava was still standing, still holding old, yellowed envelope in her fingers. The paper was soft from being opened and folded too many times. The words inside had faded, but she didn't even need to read them anymore - she knew them by heart.

It had been five years since she had seen Daniel.

They had met once in the fall of Prague's color in shades of gold and rust. Ava was a student from another country who was studying architecture; Daniel was a musician playing the violin on Charles Bridge. His melodies would drift over the Vltava River and sometimes, by the right of the evening light, it seemed as if the whole city stopped to listen.

She used to stop by the bridge everyday after class pretending that she was admiring the view, when in reality, that was the place that she was there to hear him play. He noticed, of course.

"One evening when I was playing my best song, you always walk right by," he said, smiling.

"Maybe I just have good timing," she responded though her heart was already beating fast.

What started out as casual talks gradually evolved into long walks, shared coffees and laughter in the narrow streets of the Old Town. He played for her under streetlamps and she drew him as if she were trying to capture the sound of the music itself.

They fell in "love" without setting out to do it - the kind of love that doesn't ask permission.

But life, as it is often the case, had other plans.

Ava’s student visa ended. Daniel had a dream of entering an orchestra in Vienna. They promised a way - calls, letters, one day visits. And for a while, they did. Letters were written home every month in looping handwriting, always concluding:

“Until the next bridge, my love.”

But then one spring the letters ceased.

At first, Ava thought that it was the post. Then she thought maybe he'd become sick, or moved. But weeks turned into months and months into years.

She tried to move on. She managed to finish her studies, found some work and built a quiet life back in London. But sometimes when it rained and the world was grey she'd hear the echo of a violin in her memory and her heart would ache like an unanswered question.

Until last week.

While cleaning her apartment, she came across an envelope in the bottom of an old box - unopened. It was in between two books that had gathered dust. The handwriting was unmistakable - Daniel's. Her hands were trembling in opening it.

It wasn’t a love letter. It was a goodbye.

He had written it months after she was gone. He had been diagnosed with a rare illness, one which would take away his ability to play slowly. "I could not let you see me die," he wrote. "I wanted you to remember the music and not the silence."

He ended it the same way:

“Until the next bridge.”

That letter brought her back here - to Prague. To the same bridge as, once to this same city, they had held their laughter. She walked the streets that they had walked, past the cafe where they'd eaten pastries together, the book store where they'd had an argument about poetry. Every corner seemed to be alive with echoes.

Now, standing at the station, she realized that she wasn't waiting for anybody. She was saying goodbye.

Her thoughts were broken by a voice behind her.

"Excuse me," said a young man wearing a long coat, with a violin-case under his arm. “Is this seat taken?”

Ava turned. He was maybe in his twenties - too young to know the sort of ache she carried - but his eyes were kind. She shook her head and faintly smiled. “No. It’s yours.”

He nodded and sat down next to her and opened the case. Inside was a violin old but well cared for.

"Is this a place you play in often?" she asked.

“First time,” he said. "Me teacher used to do it here," said a student from another section. He said this place was magic.”

Ava’s heart caught. “What was his name?”

“Daniel,” he said softly. “Daniel Novak. He passed away years ago. I was his last student.”

Her breath faltered. The world rocked for a moment, and the sound of the station dimmed to silence.

Young man, "He told me, "that if I ever played here, I should look for a woman with a letter. "I thought it was just a story he told to make me play better."

Ava couldn’t speak. Her eyes were full of tears when the young violinist held up the instrument and started to play.

The tune was familiar - the same tune with which Daniel had played the day they met.

The sound floated through the station, floating above the sound, weaving in and out of the light of the setting sun. People stopped to listen. And for a few minutes, Ava closed her eyes and allowed herself to believe that Daniel was there - in every note, in every heartbeat of the song.

When the music stopped, the young man smiled. “He said this was his favorite. Said that it belonged to a special person."

Ava wiped away her tears and whispered "It did."

She gave him the letter, carefully folded. “Keep it,” she said. "Maybe some day you will understand."

Then she got up and took one last look at the tracks glowing in the orange light and walked away - lighter than she was in years.

Behind her, the violin started up again, and somewhere, between the dying echoes and the whispers of the wind, she thought she heard the sound of Daniel's voice - warm and sure, carried across time.

“Until the next bridge.”