For weeks, I had awaited this moment with a mix of nerves and anticipation. As I stepped into the nursing home lobby, my hands trembled despite my crisply clean uniform and polished boots. Scanning the room anxiously, my eyes finally settled on him.

There he was—an elderly man in a wheelchair, his face lined with age but his eyes bright and hopeful. In his hands, a bouquet of red roses, meant for me. A lump formed in my throat as I tentatively approached him.

“Mr. Lawson?” I said softly. He looked up, and in that instant, I saw recognition dawn on his face. A wide grin spread across his lips as he tightened his grip on the bouquet. “You came,” he murmured.

Trying to hold back tears, I nodded and bit my lip. “I had to,” I replied. He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “No, you didn’t have to. But I’m grateful that you did.”

With a shaky hand, he pulled out a folded, yellowed letter from his pocket. “I wrote this for you… a long time ago.” My heart raced as I accepted the letter from him, knowing instinctively that its contents would change everything.

Sitting across from him, the scent of roses filled the air around us. Mr. Lawson’s gaze was piercing yet gentle, as if he could see straight through me.

“Are you ready?” he asked quietly. I hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Carefully unfolding the fragile paper, I began to read:

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