Part 1: The Discovery
The letter arrived three months after Emma's grandfather died. That was the first strange thing - it was addressed in his handwriting. The second strange thing was the postmark: December 15, 1943.
Emma's hands trembled as she opened the yellowed envelope. Inside, she found not one letter but two - and a brief note paper-clipped to the top.
"Emma - I found these cleaning out the attic. Thought you should have them. They explain a lot. - Uncle Robert"
Part 2: Letter One - December 1943
Dear Catherine,
By the time you read this, I will have shipped out. I know you're angry that I enlisted without telling you first. You have every right to be. But I need you to understand why.
When I was seven years old, I watched my father walk away from a fight. A man was beating a shopkeeper on Maple Street, and my father - this strong man I admired - just crossed to the other side and kept walking. He told me later that it wasn't our business. That getting involved would only make things worse.
I believed him for a long time. But there's a war now, Catherine. And everything I've read, everything I've heard - there are people over there who need help. I can't cross to the other side of the street this time. I can't.
Wait for me if you can. Forgive me if you can't.
Always yours, William
Part 3: Letter Two - March 1944
Dear William,
I haven't written back until now because I didn't know what to say. I was angry - you were right about that. But reading your letter again and again, I finally understood.
You're not your father. Maybe that's what you needed to prove, or maybe it's what you've always known. Either way, I see it now.
I don't know where this letter will find you or if it will find you at all. But I want you to know: I'll be here. Not because you asked me to wait, but because you're the kind of person worth waiting for - someone who can't cross to the other side when others need help.
Come home to me.
Forever, Catherine
Part 4: Present Day
Emma set down the letters. She understood now why Grandpa had never spoken of the war, why he'd wince when people called him a hero. His courage hadn't come from fearlessness - it had come from shame. A seven-year-old's memory of his father, walking away.
She thought of her own small cowardices: the times she'd looked away, stayed quiet, chosen comfort over conscience. We all have that street to cross, she realized. Every single day.
Emma picked up her phone and dialed. She had a conversation she'd been avoiding for too long.