“We never did write that letter.” I kept my voice low, soft as the breeze curling through the screened patio.

Rufus gave my hand a gentle pat. “Never felt like we needed to, Ida.”

I smiled at the sound of my name, familiar and warm like the man who said it.

We sat in a quiet spell, the rustle of leaves overhead mixing with the creak of our chairs and the distant chirp of birds outside. The years stretched behind us like railroad tracks, long and steady.

“You remember the bus?”

“How could I forget? You were sitting in the third row, apron still on, smudged with flour. Smelled like cinnamon rolls.”

“And you had grease on your collar, hands rough from the rails. Looked like you’d worked a full day and still had your whole life ahead of you.”

“I had. And I knew, when you looked up from that little book, I was gonna spend that life with you.”

I let out a soft laugh. “You didn’t say a word that first ride.”

“Just sat next to you, staring out the window. I was too scared to speak. Didn’t want to ruin the moment.”

“Funny. I was thinking the same thing.”

“We were only seventeen,” I said. “Felt older some days.”

“You sure did,” Rufus said with a grin. “Working at the bakery before sun-up, then heading to school like you weren’t running on fumes.”

I laughed. “Started rollin’ dough at four, barely kept my eyes open in homeroom.”

“I was down at the yard with Uncle Ray after school. Figured I’d go full-time soon as I graduated.”

“We kept catching that same bus,” I said. “Every day.”

He nodded. “I always hoped I’d see you there.”

“And you always did.”

“Took me a week just to speak. Thought I’d pass out when I offered to carry your satchel.”

“You looked terrified,” I teased, “but sweet. And I let you.”

“And that was the beginning.”

We sat quiet again, sunlight stretching across the patio floor.

“We were so young.”

“But we knew. And we held on. Through long shifts, lean years, and sleepless nights. Through burnt suppers, late trains, morning kisses, and midnight talks.”

I looked down at our hands—his rougher, mine softer—both worn by time but still twined together.

“You ever think about what you’d say to your younger self?”

“I have. But every time I try, I stop. Words just aren’t big enough.”

“No letter could ever carry it right. We didn’t live our love on paper.”

“We lived it in folded shirts and Friday glances through the bakery window. In quiet apologies and warm biscuits.”

“In the little things. The steady things. And I wouldn’t trade a single one.”

Rufus leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “That letter’s already written, sugar. It’s written in us.”

We sat there a little longer, just the two of us, the breeze soft against our skin and the world holding still.

We didn’t need pen and paper.

We had a life.

And that was more than enough.