In the attic of their late grandmother’s house, Anna and her younger brother Luke were knee-deep in old boxes, dusty books, and faded photographs. The house had stood for over fifty years, and the siblings had spent their childhood visiting it every summer. Now that their grandmother had passed, it was up to them to sift through the remnants of her life, discovering pieces of her story they had never known.
While Luke rummaged through an old trunk filled with clothes, Anna found a small wooden box hidden behind a stack of yellowed newspapers. The wood was worn but polished, and a delicate brass clasp held it shut. Curiosity piqued, she opened it carefully, and inside she found a bundle of old postcards tied together with a ribbon, their edges frayed and their colors faded.
“Hey, Luke, come here,” she called softly, her voice echoing in the quiet attic.
Luke looked up from the pile of scarves he was untangling. “What did you find?”
Anna held up the stack of postcards. “These. They look like they’ve been here forever.”
He joined her, wiping his hands on his jeans before taking one of the postcards from the bundle. The front of the card depicted a sunny beach scene, with old-fashioned umbrellas and people dressed in vintage swimwear. The writing on the back was neat and elegant, the ink slightly faded but still readable.
"My dearest Margaret," Luke read aloud. "The sea here is as blue as your eyes, and I can’t help but think of you every moment. I wish you were here beside me. Yours, always, James."
They both exchanged a look. “Margaret… that’s Grandma,” Anna whispered, her heart racing.
Carefully, they laid the postcards out in order. There were dozens of them, each from different places—New York City, Paris, the Grand Canyon, Rome. Some were romantic, others were simple updates about a trip, but all of them were signed the same way: Yours, always, James.
Anna frowned. “Who was James? I’ve never heard of him.”
Luke shrugged. “Maybe he was a friend?”
The next postcard showed the Eiffel Tower. "Margaret, Paris is as beautiful as we imagined. I wish I could have taken you here like we always talked about. One day, I hope we’ll have that chance. James."
Anna felt a pang in her chest. Their grandmother had never spoken about anyone named James. In fact, the only love story they knew was about their grandfather, Thomas. He had passed away years before their grandmother, but she always spoke of him fondly. There had never been any mention of a man named James.
They continued reading, watching the relationship between their grandmother and James unfold through the postcards. The early ones were filled with hope and excitement, the dreams of two young people in love. But as they read further, the tone of the postcards began to change.
"Dearest Margaret," one of the later cards read. "Life has a way of keeping us apart, doesn't it? I can’t stop thinking about you, about the life we could have had together. But I know now that it may never happen. I will always love you, even if I can never call you mine. Yours, always, James."
Anna felt her throat tighten. “What happened between them?”
Luke shook his head, just as confused. “I don’t know. But it sounds like they were really in love.”
The last postcard in the stack was from London, dated around the time their grandmother had met their grandfather. The message was short and bittersweet: "Margaret, this will be my final postcard. I heard about your engagement. I hope he makes you as happy as you deserve. I’ll never stop loving you, but I know now that our paths are meant to be different. Be well, my love. Yours, always, James."
Anna sat back, holding the postcard in her hands, her mind swirling with thoughts. “She never mentioned any of this.”
Luke was silent for a moment, then said, “Maybe it was too painful. Maybe she moved on with Grandpa, but she didn’t want to look back.”
Anna glanced down at the postcards, feeling a deep sadness for the story that had remained hidden for so long. Their grandmother had lived a full life, a happy life with their grandfather, but there had been this other love, a love that had never had the chance to grow. The postcards were a testament to that—a love frozen in time, preserved only in ink and paper.
“I wonder if she kept these because she still thought of him,” Anna mused, her voice barely a whisper.
“Maybe,” Luke said. “Or maybe she just didn’t want to forget. Even if it didn’t end the way they wanted, it still mattered.”
They sat in the attic for a long time, the old postcards scattered between them, the forgotten love story of their grandmother slowly revealing itself. As the sunlight filtered through the dusty attic windows, Anna gently gathered the postcards and placed them back in the wooden box.
“We should keep these,” she said softly. “It’s a part of her story, even if we didn’t know about it until now.”
Luke nodded in agreement, and they carefully closed the box. As they continued sorting through their grandmother’s belongings, they both felt the weight of the postcards lingering, a reminder that love isn’t always simple, and that some stories remain untold until they are found, long after the ink has dried.
ki-generated