After 12 years overseas, Anikó stepped off the train and headed straight for the old boarding school where she grew up. But when she opened the rusted gate… she froze in shock. 😱
“Can I help you?” came a gentle voice from behind her.
An elderly woman stood there, holding a ring of keys. Her posture was fragile, but her gaze was sharp.
“I’m looking for someone,” Anikó said quietly. “My brother. He was left here when I got adopted. I promised I’d come back.”
The woman’s face softened. “Name?”
Anikó gave it — full name, age, and the year she last saw him.
The woman paused, then turned. “Follow me. There’s something you should see.”
The halls looked frozen in time. Same peeling paint. Same cold smell. Memories rushed back, but something didn’t feel right.
They reached a locked room at the very end of the corridor. The woman unlocked it slowly.
“I think… he left something behind for you.”
Inside was a small, dusty room. On the bed: a sealed letter. And on the wall… a photo of them as kids, taped next to a handwritten note:
“Don’t forget me. I’ll be waiting.”
Anikó burst into tears.
Anikó’s hands trembled as she reached for the letter.
The paper was yellowed with time, but the handwriting was unmistakable — bold and slightly slanted, just like her brother’s used to be.
She sat on the edge of the dusty bed, heart pounding, and carefully broke the seal.
“If you’re reading this, it means you came back.”
“I always believed you would. Even when everyone else said you forgot about me, I never did.”
“They moved me to another home a year after you left. Said I needed ‘more structure.’ I didn’t understand. I thought I’d wait here and you’d come back like you promised.”
“But I didn’t blame you. I knew you didn’t get a choice. I just hoped… someday… we’d find each other again.”
Tears spilled onto the paper as Anikó read on.
“If you’re here now, I want you to know something: I never stopped being your brother. I never stopped hoping.”
“They wouldn’t tell me where you went. I tried to find you. I even wrote letters. I don’t know if any reached you.”
“But I left this behind, just in case. A piece of us. A promise kept.”
Anikó pressed the letter to her chest, choking back sobs.
The photo on the wall — faded but untouched — showed two children smiling, arms around each other, the world behind them blurry and bright.
She traced the note beneath it:
“Don’t forget me. I’ll be waiting.”
“Where is he now?” she whispered.
The woman with the keys stepped inside the room, voice low and careful.
“He stayed here until he was seventeen. Then one day… he left. Said he had someone to find.”
Anikó looked up sharply. “Did he leave an address? A name? Anything?”
The woman nodded, slowly reaching into her coat pocket.
“You were the only one who ever visited this place after leaving. So I kept this. Just in case.”
She handed over a second envelope — newer, sealed tightly, marked:
“For Anikó — when she finally comes home.
