We’d been battling the fire for hours—smoke, ash, the works. I was just heading back to the station when a man tapped my shoulder. The homeowner. Tired, weathered, mid-40s.
“You were in the second-floor bedroom, right?” he asked. I nodded.
He pulled out a small silver case I’d carried out of the fire. “Open it,” he said. “You should see what’s inside.”
Inside was a photo of Anca—someone I hadn’t seen in 15 years. My best friend. My first love. The girl who vanished without a trace when we were 17.
I was stunned.
The man’s name was Marius. He’d bought the house three years ago and found the box hidden among old belongings. Letters inside were written to someone named Daniel—me.
One letter included a hand-drawn map leading to a place called Camp Valea Mare. The next day, I went.
After hours of driving and asking around, I found the abandoned camp. And in the main cabin—surrounded by decay—was Anca.
Alive.
She told me everything. How her mother took her into hiding after a family fight, running from debts and danger. New names, new towns. And after her mother died, Anca stayed hidden.
She wrote me letters every year, even knowing she’d never send them.
We talked through the night like no time had passed. In the morning, she made burnt pancakes—just like when we were kids.
“Think about coming back?” I asked.
“You just did,” I told her.
Weeks passed. We reconnected. She slowly reentered the world—new phone, new friends, old memories. Eventually, she moved in with me.
One morning, she gave me a box. Inside was a photo of us, laughing on the cabin porch. On the back she’d written:
“Sometimes the fire doesn’t destroy everything. Sometimes it just clears the way.”
And that’s exactly what it did. I thought I was saving a house that day. But I found something far more important:
I found her.
