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The old café on Oak Street was Anna’s favorite place to write. She loved the quiet mornings, the smell of fresh coffee, and the soft light that fell through the windows.
One chilly autumn day, Anna found a folded letter slipped under her usual table. It was written in a careful hand, and it said nothing about meeting or names—only feelings about watching someone from a distance and wishing things could be different.
Curious but unsure, Anna left the letter where she found it. Over the next days, more letters appeared, each one a little more personal but still shy, never revealing the writer’s identity.
Instead of anger or fear, Anna felt something new—excitement mixed with mystery. She started going to the café not just to write, but to see if she could catch a glimpse of the person behind the words.
One morning, she saw a man sitting alone with his notebook, glancing around nervously. Their eyes met briefly. Without a word, he left a final note: “I hope you know you are admired, even from afar. No promises, just my truth.”
Anna folded the note carefully. Whether or not they met again didn’t matter. For the first time in a long time, she felt the strange joy of a secret connection, a story left open like the pages in her notebook.
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