It was a peaceful evening at the ranch, and I couldn’t resist capturing the moment.
“Look closer,” he wrote.
“At the fence. Zoom in.”
Confused, I enlarged the picture, scanning the wooden post I had been leaning on.
That’s when I saw it—two initials, carved into the wood, surrounded by a faint, weathered heart. My stomach dropped.
It wasn’t just any random carving.
Those were my initials and my ex-boyfriend’s, etched into the wood with a knife many years ago.
This spot, this fence, had been our place.
A place we used to sneak away to, a place where we thought the world couldn’t touch us. I had completely forgotten about it—until now.
I tried to explain that I hadn’t even noticed it, that I didn’t remember carving it until I saw the picture.
But to my husband, it didn’t matter.
To him, this wasn’t just some old memory—it was a sign that I had gone back to a place that once held meaning for me and someone else.
