At 60, I remarried my first love. But on our wedding night, as I gently undressed her, I froze—shocked—and a sudden wave of sadness washed over me when I saw…

He squeezed my hand gently.

—If I die first now… at least I won’t die wondering what would’ve happened if we had stayed together.

I felt tears gather in my eyes instantly.

And I answered honestly:

—Neither will I.

That night, we went to bed early.

His breathing beside me was calm.

Warm.

Real.

And before falling asleep, I understood something life had taken decades to teach me.

Love is not about perfect timing.

Sometimes people meet too early and lose each other.

Sometimes life separates them for years.

Sometimes wrinkles appear before the happy ending does.

But when love is real…

even time itself cannot completely destroy it.

EPILOGUE

Three years later.

The mornings became our favorite part of life.

Not because anything extraordinary happened.

But because nothing did.

At sixty-three, I finally understood that peace is a luxury many people spend their entire youth chasing without realizing it.

Every morning, Manuel woke up before me.

Always.

I would pretend to still be asleep while listening to the soft sounds coming from the kitchen.

The kettle.

The cabinet doors.

His slow footsteps.