**Diary Entry**
22nd June 1990the night our daughter vanished. The air was thick with the scent of roses from the garden, and the kitchen still smelled of the Victoria sponge Mum had baked for her. Emily twirled in front of the mirror in her blue dress, laughing, and I, William, watched her with a sudden ache in my chest. *This is happiness,* I thought.
None of us knew it would be the last evening wed share.
After the graduation party, Emily never came home. Not that night, not the next day, not even a week later. The police searched, but leads evaporated like mist. Witnesses gave contradictory statements, and the only cluea sighting of a girl on the A1led nowhere.
Years slipped by. Margaret, my wife, withdrew into herself. I aged before my time. Hope, like a dying ember, flickered weakly.
Then, in 2012, everything changed.
On a damp October afternoon, I climbed into the attic to sort through old boxes. Dust swirled in the dim light as I sifted through forgotten thingsschool reports, toys, faded letters. Then I found it: the photo album. Emilys childhoodschool plays, summers in Cornwall, her first day at primary school.
Flipping through it, my breath caught. A photograph I didnt recognisea woman in her thirties, standing by a cottage with hills behind her. On the back, in faint ink: *2002. Im alive. Forgive me.*
My hands shook.
Downstairs, I handed the photo to Margaret. She studied it, her fingers trembling, then whispered, *Its her. Its Emily.*
We sat in silence for hours, tracing every detailthe cottage, the sign in the background: *The Star Inn.* With a magnifying glass, we deciphered the rest: *2002. Im alive. Forgive me. E.*
*Twelve years,* I murmured. *Alive all that time. Why?*
The next morning, I searched online. The inn was in Wales, nestled in a remote village. I withdrew savings, packed a bag, and left.
The journey was longtrains, buses, finally a rattling van winding through the valleys. The air grew colder as we climbed. My heart pounded as I stepped out.
There it was. The same sign, the same façade. Inside, the smell of woodsmoke and old books. A woman at the counter eyed me.
*Excuse me,* I said, voice unsteady. *Do you know a woman named Emily? Emily Hartwell? She mightve stayed here years ago.*
She studied me, then reached under the counter. *Youre William? Her father?*
I froze. *Yes.*
She handed me an envelope, yellowed with age. *To Dad. Only if he comes himself.*
I tore it open.
*Dad,* it read. *If youre reading this, I was wrong. I ran away in 1990not from you, but from fear. I fell in with the wrong crowd. By the time I realised, it was too late to come back. I was ashamed.
Im alive. I have a son. His name is Thomas. Hes never met you.
I wanted to write so many times. I couldnt.
If youve comefind me. Im close.
Forgive me.
E.*
Tears blurred the ink.
*She lives nearby,* the woman said. *I can take you.*
Soon, I stood at the gate of a small stone house. A boy played in the garden. A woman stepped outEmily.
Our eyes met.
*Dad?*
I couldnt speak. Just nodded. Then she was in my arms, holding me as tightly as she had as a child.
*Im sorry,* she whispered. *Ill make it right.*
Years passed. The house filled with laughter again. Thomas called me *Grandad,* and Margaret planted daffodils by the door for the first time in decades.
The past still ached, but the album now sat open on the shelf. The last page held a new photoEmily, Thomas, Margaret, and me.
Beneath it, written in Thomass hand: *Family is finding each other. Even after twenty-two years.*
Autumn 2013 was unseasonably warm. Leaves drifted slowly, and the air smelled of apples and woodsmoke. Margaret sat on the porch, peeling potatoes, an old quilt over her knees. Inside, Thomas chattered:
*Grandad, did you really drive tractors?*
*Aye, and I was the best in the county!*
Emily called from the kitchen: *Lunch! Thomas, fetch Grandad.*
I hesitated before her. *Every morning, Im afraid Ill wake up and youll be gone again.*
She looked down. *I was afraid too. That youd never forgive me.*
*Silly girl,* I said softly. *How could I not?*
Years later, Margaret found Emilys diary in the attic. One entry read: *I scrubbed floors, waited tables, shared a room with an old widow and her cats. Some days, I felt like a ghost. I wanted to come home, but I couldnt face it.*
*When Thomas was born, I swore: if I ever got the chance, Id return. Even after twenty years.*
Margaret made tea and hugged Emily without a word. *Dont disappear again,* was all she said.
One evening, a man knocked at the doorStephen, the boy Emily had run off with in 1990. Hed come to apologise.
*I dont expect forgiveness,* he said. *I just needed you to knowI never forgot.*
Emily was quiet a long time. *I forgave you years ago. Not for you. For me.*
He left, and with him, the last shadow of the past.
Time moved on. Thomas grew up, studied photography in London. I grew frail but still watched him from the window as he left with his camera.
*Weve got an artist in the family,* Id say proudly.
One spring morning, I didnt wake up. Thomas found me, a photo of Emily in her blue dress beside me.
He buried me under the apple tree, adding a new picture to the albumme in my chair, him on my knee. The caption read: *You taught me to remember. Thank you, Grandad.*
Years later, Thomas published a book*The Album*filled with our story. At a reading, Emily stood before the crowd and said simply, *Thank you for remembering us. Thats how we stay alive.*
In 2030, Emily passed quietly, just as I had. Thomas buried her beside us, under the tree. He took one last photothe inscription on the stone:
*William, Margaret, Emily Hartwell.*
Beneath it, he wrote: *They found each other. And I found them.*
Now, when he visits, he swears he hears usMargarets laughter, my voice telling old stories, Emily humming in the kitchen.
No one ever really leaves. They become the wind, the light through the leaves.
And if you remembertheyre with you. Always.
