The Echo of a Promise #PleaseCometoBoston

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The postcard arrived, as it always did, with the crisp scent of salt and a faded picture of a lighthouse. It was postmarked "Boston," and the familiar, looping handwriting on the back sent a familiar ache through Sarah's chest. "Please Come to Boston," it read, the simple lyrics of Dave Loggins' 1974 hit echoing in her mind. It was a song that had become the unofficial soundtrack to her life, a constant reminder of the promise whispered on a summer night, so many years ago.

She and Daniel had been inseparable that summer, two small-town dreamers with grand plans. He was off to Boston for architecture school, a world away from their quiet, rural existence. Sarah, still a year from graduation, promised to visit, to write, to wait. They’d danced to "Please Come to Boston" at the senior prom, his hand warm on her back, her head resting against his shoulder. "I'm the poet and you're the song," he'd murmured, quoting the lyrics, and she’d believed him with all the fervent hope of youth.

The letters came at first, thick envelopes filled with detailed accounts of city life, sketches of grand buildings, and fervent declarations of love. Then they grew shorter, less frequent. The visits never materialized. Life, with its relentless currents, pulled them in different directions. Sarah found a job, built a life, but a part of her always remained tethered to that summer, to the boy who promised to be her song.

Now, she ran her thumb over the worn edges of the postcard. Fifty years. Fifty years since that dance, since that promise. She had often wondered if he still thought of her, if the song held the same bittersweet weight for him. She pictured him in Boston, a successful architect, perhaps with a family, a life entirely separate from the one they’d envisioned.

A sudden, impulsive thought struck her. She looked at the date on the postcard – today's date, fifty years ago. She picked up her phone, her fingers hovering over the numbers she still remembered by heart, a number she had never dared to dial. What would she say? What could fifty years of unspoken longing possibly convey? As the first notes of "Please Come to Boston" drifted from the radio, a forgotten station playing oldies, Sarah took a deep breath. It was a long shot, a foolish, romantic gesture. But sometimes, a forgotten song was all the courage you needed to finally reach out, to see if the echo of a promise still lingered.

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