Paul continued, “Walter shared his rations, helped her write letters in broken French, kept asking about Anton. Some days, he even made her laugh. He promised he’d keep searching.”
“Did they ever find him?” Toby asked.
Paul’s shoulders slumped. “No. They never did. One day, Elena was told she’d be evacuated. She pressed this ring into Walter’s hand and begged him, ‘If you find my husband, give him this. Tell him I waited.’ A few weeks later, we learned there were casualties where she was sent.”
I stared down at the ring again, its weight suddenly unbearable. “But why did you have it?”
Paul met my gaze. “After Walter’s hip surgery a few years ago, he sent it to me. Said I was better at tracking people down. Asked me to try again to find Elena’s family. I tried, Edith. There was nothing left.”
I wiped my face with Walter’s old handkerchief. “So you kept it safe for him.”
Paul nodded. “When he passed… I knew it belonged with you. With him.”
I unfolded the first note.
Walter’s handwriting—crooked but steady, just like the grocery lists and birthday cards he used to leave behind.
“Edith, I always meant to tell you about this ring, but I never found the right moment.
I kept it all these years because the war showed me how quickly love can slip away.
It was never because you weren’t enough. It was never about holding someone else.
If anything, it made me love you harder, every ordinary day.
