At 78, I sold everything I had. My apartment, my old pickup truck, even my collection of vinyl records—the ones I had spent years collecting. Things no longer mattered.

Elizabeth wrote to me first. The letter came unexpectedly, tucked between bills and advertisements, as if it had no idea how much power it held.

“I’ve been thinking of you.”

That was all it said. A single sentence that yanked me back decades. I read it three times before I even let myself breathe.