Allie watched from the doorway, clutching the envelope. “I’ll sleep on the couch,” the girl whispered. Nick nodded and patted her head. They stepped out and pulled the door shut.
In the living room, Nancy hugged Nick. “You’re a good man, Nick Miller,” she whispered. He didn’t say anything; he just held her, looking out the window at the falling snow.
The last page of the letter was shaking in Allie’s hands. The words were blurring—she couldn’t tell if it was from crying or just being tired. It was 3:00 AM on January 8th, and the house was silent.
Only the hum of the fridge and the occasional clank of the pipes broke the quiet. Allie sat on the couch, wrapped in a quilt, a small lamp casting a yellow circle on the pages. She’d been reading for two hours, unable to look away.
She finished the last line. *”Thank you, kind stranger, for the ride. Forgive me for burdening you. Eleanor.”*
Allie stacked the pages neatly and put them on her lap. She covered her face with her hands and cried silently, her shoulders shaking. She didn’t want to wake her parents.
How could one person go through so much? How do you lose everyone and keep going? Allie wiped her face with the quilt and took a deep breath. She looked inside the envelope one last time.
There was something else. She pulled out an old black-and-white photo, frayed at the corners. It was a young man, maybe twenty-five, in a work jacket and a cap, smiling wide. He looked happy.
In the background were some construction trailers. Allie turned it over. The ink was faded: *”Brother Bill. Pittsburgh. 1965. Before he left for the mines.”* Bill. Allie looked at the closed door where Eleanor was sleeping.
She had a brother. Somewhere out there, he might still be alive. Maybe he thought she was gone, too. Allie looked at her phone. It was 3:15 AM. She opened her social media apps, her fingers flying.
She peeked into the bedroom. Eleanor was fast asleep. Allie took a quick photo of her from the doorway, then a clear shot of the old photo of Bill. She sat back down on the couch.
She started typing. *”I’m looking for a miracle for this woman. Her name is Eleanor Thompson (born Eleanor Vulov), she’s 80 years old, originally from Pittsburgh. Last night, my dad picked her up in a blizzard. She was walking to a cemetery with a sled.”*
*”She spent ten years saving for a headstone for her daughter and a year carving it herself. On her daughter’s birthday, she went out in a storm to finish it. My dad found her and brought her home. I just read her life story, and it’s the most heartbreaking thing I’ve ever heard.”*
*”She lost her parents, her husband, and her only daughter. She thinks she’s alone. But she has a brother, Bill Vulov. He moved out West in the sixties to work the mines. They lost touch in the nineties. Eleanor thinks he’s dead. Please help me find him. Maybe he’s still out there. Share this. Let’s bring them back together.”*
Allie attached the photos, added the location, and tagged every local news outlet and genealogy group she could find. She posted it to Facebook, Instagram, and TikTok. She sent messages to a few big influencers. “Please help. This is real. Please.”
She hit send over and over. Then she leaned back, watching the screen. Five views. Two likes. Allie sighed, set the phone down, and closed her eyes. She heard a noise in the kitchen.
Her parents were sitting at the table. Her dad was looking out the window, and her mom was holding a cup of coffee. They were talking in low voices. “She can stay as long as she needs,” Nancy said. “Allie’s room is big enough for another bed.”
“Yeah,” Nick nodded. “We aren’t letting her go back to that rooming house. No way.” Allie smiled, checked her phone again. Twenty views, five likes, three shares. She pulled the quilt up and drifted off to sleep.
Allie woke up to her phone buzzing like crazy. It was 9:00 AM. She opened the app and froze: the post had 52,000 views, 8,000 likes, and 2,000 shares. The comments were a landslide.
“Oh my god, I’m crying.” “Shared! My uncle worked the mines in Nevada, I’ll ask him.” “We have to find him. This is incredible.”
Allie scrolled through, her heart pounding. One comment stood out: *”My neighbor’s last name is Vulov. He’s an old guy in Montana. I’m calling him right now.”* Another: *”My grandma knew a Bill Vulov in the seventies. He moved to Arizona after he retired.”*
Allie sat up. She started replying to messages, clarifying details. The notifications were a blur. The post had hit the local news pages. Allie ran into the kitchen, waving her phone.
“Mom! Dad! Look!” she shouted. Nick took the phone, and Nancy leaned over his shoulder. “Good Lord,” Nancy whispered. “Look at all those people…”
“We’re going to find him,” Allie said firmly. Just then, the bedroom door creaked open. Eleanor stepped out, looking a bit lost.
“Good morning, Eleanor,” Nancy said, walking over. “How did you sleep?” “Well,” the old woman whispered. “I… where am I?”
“You’re with us,” Nick said. “Remember?” “I remember,” Eleanor nodded. “I thought it was a dream.” She sat at the table, and Allie poured her some juice.
They ate breakfast—eggs, toast, and the rest of the pie. It felt normal, comfortable. Eleanor ate quietly, then looked at them. “I’m not used to this,” she said. “You’re like… angels. Real ones.”
Her voice cracked. Allie took her hand. “Eleanor,” the girl said. “I have some news.”
Eleanor looked at her. “I put your story on the internet,” Allie explained. “About you and your brother Bill.” The old woman went still. “People are helping. Thousands of them. They’re looking for him.”
“Maybe we’ll find him.” Eleanor looked at the screen, at the numbers and the names. Her lips trembled. “Bill,” she whispered. “My brother.” Suddenly, Allie’s phone buzzed with a direct message.
The girl opened it and gasped. “What is it?” Nick asked. Allie looked up, her eyes wide. “Someone says they know him. They have a phone number.”
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