The night was calm.
I sat on the balcony, my old school diary open.
Beside me, my little daughter listened with wide eyes as I finished reading.
"So, baba" she asked softly, "did you really love her?"
I smiled. "Yes. I did. And maybe I still do; but not the way you think. Some people stay in our hearts, not our lives."
She nodded slowly, her small fingers touching the old bracelet on my wrist.
Then a gentle voice came from behind us familiar, loving.
"Smrity," the voice said, "don't you want to know about my story with your father?"
My daughter turned and smiled. "Mumma!"
I looked at them; my wife and our little girl, and closed the diary.
Maybe love doesn't end.
It just changes form.
And as the stars flickered above us, I knew every story, even the sad ones, had led me home.