"Still, I Remember"

The house hadn’t changed in years. The old wooden porch still creaked under my weight, the wind chimes still danced with the breeze, and the scent of jasmine still lingered in the evening air. Time had moved forward, but this place — our place — stayed suspended, as if waiting for me to return.

I hesitated before turning the doorknob. My fingers lingered on the cool brass, and for a moment, I could almost hear her laugh echo from the hallway.

“Don’t forget your coat, Daniel. It’s cold out.”

She always worried. Always made sure I had what I needed before I even realized I needed it.

Inside, the house was just as I remembered. The photos on the mantel, the worn armchair by the window, the patchwork quilt folded neatly on the sofa. Everything was in its place — except her.

I walked slowly through the rooms, each step stirring dust and memory alike. In the kitchen, I paused at the round wooden table where we used to sit for hours. Talking. Arguing. Laughing. Living. The small vase in the center still held dried lavender from last summer.

She had loved lavender.

On impulse, I opened the drawer next to the fridge — the one she called her "treasure chest." Inside were paper clips, old receipts, a dog-eared notepad, and at the very back, a bundle of letters tied with a blue ribbon.

I recognized the handwriting on the top envelope. It was mine.

We met when I was twenty and reckless. She was nineteen, full of dreams and stubborn kindness. I was running from a family I couldn’t forgive; she was trying to build one she never had. I don’t know how we worked — we just did. For years, we built a life in this house. Not perfect, but ours.

Until the day she told me she was sick.

I didn’t handle it well. I yelled. I cried. I walked out for three days, unable to face the truth. But when I came back, she was waiting at the porch, arms crossed, a knowing look in her eyes.

“I knew you’d be back,” she said softly. “You remember the important things, even when it hurts.”

She was right. And I stayed. Until the very end.

I sat at the kitchen table now, the bundle of letters before me. My fingers trembled as I opened the top one.

Dear Daniel,

If you're reading this, it means you came back — maybe for closure, maybe for comfort. Or maybe because part of you still lives here, even if you don't want to admit it.

I know how you are. You’ll tell yourself you’re fine, that life moves on. And it does. But I also know you never really forget, no matter how much time passes.

Still, I remember — your laugh, your quiet apologies, the way you always turned the lights off in every room except the one I was in. I remember the night you stayed up with me in the hospital, reading poetry I never understood but loved to hear in your voice.

I remember all of it. So if you ever doubt we mattered, stop. You were my whole story, Daniel. I just hope I was yours, too.

Love,

Mira

I sat there for a long time, letter in hand, the words soaking into me like rain into dry soil.

Later, I wandered into the small backyard where we planted the tree. It had grown taller than I remembered, its branches full, leaves rustling like whispers in the wind.

She had wanted to plant it after her first round of chemo. “Something that will keep growing,” she’d said. “Even when I’m not here to see it.”

I touched the bark gently. Still, I remember.

I remembered the good days — sunlight through windows, her head on my shoulder, dancing barefoot in the living room. And I remembered the hard ones — hospital beeps, shaved hair, the quiet sobs she tried to hide.

I remembered all of it. Every moment, every breath, every goodbye we said before the final one.

That night, I stayed in the house. I lit a fire in the old hearth and reread every letter she left. Each one filled with stories, memories, pieces of a life she wanted me to carry forward.

And somehow, for the first time in years, the silence didn’t hurt as much.

She was gone, yes. But not forgotten.

Still, I Remember.

Not because I have to.

But because she deserves to be remembered.

And because love — true love — never really fades. It simply changes shape and lives on, quietly, in everything we do.