“Thank you, sir. Your seat is right over here,” says the gentleman whom I assume to be the conductor. He is kind enough to help me with my bag, placing it in the overhead compartment above my seat.

I ease into the blue cushion next to a young man who appears to be traveling alone. He is wearing an expensive-looking pair of headphones, has a phone is resting on his lap, and he looks slightly bored. I’m sure he’s oblivious to the fact that he’s experiencing luxury at its finest compared to what I knew when I was young. I doubt he’d even be able to comprehend what a train ride during World War II would have been like for the prisoners of that war.

“I love the train,” I tell the boy, guessing he probably can’t hear me anyway. His gaze floats to the left, studying me for a moment. I’m quite surprised when he twists his head to take a longer look at me, though I’m not surprised with the expression on his face—one that tells me I’ve annoyed him before he quickly looks down at his phone. I suppose I’m not that interesting to look at, but I don’t give up that easily.

“You know, I used to ride the train because it was the best place to people watch,” I say, seeing the boy shift his weight around with discomfort. He seems a little more irritated now. “I was people watching so I could find a particular woman. I figured if I rode the train enough times, I would eventually see her. Did you know that seven hundred and fifty-thousand people travel through Grand Central Station each day? Can you imagine that?”

Rather than respond, the boy hits the volume button on his phone, probably increasing the loudness of his music, then turns his head toward the window.

“The ironic part about my train rides was that I ended up seeing the woman I was looking for at the small airport in Rhode Island—in the smallest state of this country. What are those odds?”

When I get no response, I decide to leave the poor lad alone for a few minutes. I realize I’m likely making him uncomfortable, but what he doesn’t realize, is that by the end of the ride, he’ll be asking me for more stories.

Amelia. Her name still brings a smile to my face, but also a deep feeling of longing, even though it’s just thoughts running silently through my mind. I’ve felt an overwhelming sense of sadness ever since I heard from her granddaughter yesterday. Amelia is ninety-two years old, and although it’s an accomplishment to reach such an age, it’s hard to bear the thought of her leaving this earth without her lips touching mine one more time. I’m almost embarrassed to be having these thoughts, but it’s beyond my control. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of her. Not a night has gone by that I haven’t dreamed about her. I know I did the right thing by not interfering with her life, but my heart aches to think that we will never have the chance to spend our lives together. The years flew by, but the reality of never being able to gaze into her eyes or touch her sweet face again has almost been too much to bear over the years. I never reached out to her because I didn’t want to be selfish. However, now I don’t have to feel bad because I was asked to come.

“When I saw Amelia, the woman I’m talking about, in the airport that day, she had her arms full—two little girls, one with dark brown curls and the other with long blonde hair. They were both talking to her at the same moment, begging her to buy a bag of candy in the store they were sitting across from. I sat in the distance within the gate’s waiting area, just watching her. Once she gave in to her daughters, she leaned back into her seat, pulled in a deep breath and smiled. I saw happiness on her beautiful face.”

The boy looks over at me and removes his headphones from his ears. “You like to talk, huh?” he asks. His voice must have just started changing because it sounded very deep for the age he looked. I wondered why he was traveling alone. Was he was visiting family, or maybe running away?

“When I stop talking, I start to think, and that’s never a good thing. Talking cleanses the soul.”

“That makes sense,” he says, which surprises me.

“So, do you want to know if I went up and talked to her?” I ask him.

The boy shrugs. “Sure, I guess.” He’s acting like he doesn’t care, but I think he’s curious where this story is going.

“I didn’t approach her right away. After spending such a long time searching for her, I needed to consider what to do. Within a few minutes of watching her, a well-dressed man, who I assumed to be her husband, sat down beside her.” The man appeared charming, and she smiled happily as they conversed. “I remember watching as he told her something that made her laugh, and then they each went about reading their respective magazines. She elbowed him once to show him a picture in the one she was reading, and he chuckled in return.” She was happy. It was apparent. “Then, when their daughters came back from the store, they both hugged them and gave each girl a kiss on her cheek before the darlings sat down on the ground to eat their candy.” The family looked like a picture of perfection. I envied her husband since he had everything I always wanted. “Anyway, after all the time I had spent looking for her, I felt a sense of relief to know she was happy and well. It was the closure I thought I needed before moving on with my life. I figured I wouldn’t have to wonder anymore.”

“You didn’t even say hi?” the boy asks.

“No, I did not, and do you know why?”

He shakes his head with confusion. “Why?”

“If I had walked up to her, every memory she had, both bad and good, would have come rushing back, and I didn’t want that for her. She had been through some terrible things, and it appeared she was living a good life. While I had always dreamed of being a part of it, I was satisfied enough, knowing her dream had come true.”

“I would have gone over to her,” the boy says. “What if she was only somewhat happy, you know?”

“Somewhat happy?” I ask him.

“Yeah, like my mom acted for most of my life until last year.”

Divorce. The poor kid. I’m sure that must be hard for him. “Divorce?” I ask to confirm my assumption.

“Yeah, I told my mom that if she wanted to be happy, she needed to leave my dad and get her own life.” I’m stunned by his words. He is so mature and rational for such a young man.

“You’re a smart kid; you know that?”

“I just know I would not want to grow up to be a miserable person,” he says. “That’s why I would have gone after the woman.”

“I haven’t been miserable,” I correct him.

“You let some other guy be with your woman? I don’t think that would make me very happy,” he says.

“How old are you, son?”

“Fifteen,” he answers while straightening his shoulders to appear a bit taller.

“Ah, so you’re just starting to date then, huh?” I ask him.

He shrugs again. “Eh, the girls at my school kind of su—they’re stuck up.”

“I can understand. Most women were like that back in the forties too, but not my Amelia. She was such a sweetheart.”

“Where did you two meet?” He asks the question that makes my throat tighten each time I’m asked, even after seventy-four years. I don’t believe in hiding my story, but it hasn’t gotten much easier to discuss over the years.

“During World War II in a concentration camp.”

Being fifteen, I assume he’s already learned about the Holocaust in his history classes, which is likely the reason his jaw drops. “You survived the Holocaust?” he asks while looking at me as if I were a living ghost.

I glance out the window into the blur of trees we’re passing, stealing a moment to avoid eye contact while I confess the truth. “I was one of the bad guys,” I tell him.

“You were a—Natz—a—ah.” The word is said as if it’s a cuss—an insult. It should be; the truth hurts whether it was a path I chose or not.

“We were referred to as Nazis, yes, but I called myself a soldier. I was enlisted by my parents and never given a choice. Sometimes, life takes you for a ride, and when you don’t know where your stop is, you just keep moving until the ride ends?” He doesn’t understand what I’m talking about, and that’s fine.

“Wow,” he replies.

The look on his face and his gasping word are a typical response from people of all ages. “I was sentenced to ten years in prison, but I had never hurt a fly. I was punished because I did the right thing.”

“Whoa,” the boy says. “Was Amelia a—um—soldier too?”

“No, son, she was the victim.”

“A Jew?” he clarifies as his eyes widen with shock.

“A person,” I clarify. “A beautiful, wonderful, loving human being who I adored more than my own life.”

“That’s crazy,” he says. “And you never talked to her again?”

“No, I haven’t yet.”

There’s silence for a few moments before the boy continues talking. “Sir, with all due respect, you seem like you’ve lived a long life. What exactly are you waiting for?”

I lean my head back into my seat and shut my eyes, knowing a nap will make this ride go by much faster. “I’m waiting for the end of this ride,” I tell him, “and it’s almost over.”

“You’re going to see Amelia?” he asks, elated with curiosity.

“I am, indeed. Seventy-four years late, but I’ll finally be able to talk to my love again.”

“That’s awesome, sir.”

“Yes, it is quite awesome, if I do say so myself.” The boy smiles as he lifts his headphones from his lap. “Son, do me a favor,” I say before his headphones are secured over his ears. “Don’t fall in love until you’re ready to hold onto her for the rest of your life.” There’s my unsolicited advice for the day.

My nap aligned perfectly with the end of the ride as we pulled into South Station in Boston.

“Hey, son, would you mind helping me with my bag? I’ve got a bad arm.” The boy looks down at my prosthetic arm, and his mouth falls open, ready to ask another round of questions, I assume.

“Is that because of the war?” He asks in a way that a boy would sound when comparing scars for measures of toughness.

“It’s not an achievement, but yes, it is.”

“Did it hurt?”

“It did hurt, but I’ve felt worse pain.” Many people don’t know what the heart is capable of doing to a body. In my experience, physical pain has never been able to compete with the emotional turmoil my heart went through. He grabs my bag and hands it over to my good hand.

“It was nice to meet you, sir.”

“Charlie,” I tell him as I place my bag down and reach out my hand to shake his.

“Danny,” he says. “I’m glad you sat next to me today.”

“The pleasure was all mine.” I tip my head and retrieve my bag from the ground.

We exit the train, and I find my way through the terminal to catch a cab, but just as I’m reaching the exit, a young woman places her hand on my arm. “Excuse me, but are you Charlie Crane?” The voice is familiar. Not many people know me by name in Boston, so I assume this is the young lady I spoke to on the phone yesterday.

I turn toward her, finding a spitting image of Amelia—the auburn hair, chestnut eyes, and the worry written in her nervous smile. “And you are?”

“Emma Hill,” she says.

I press my lips together because my chest aches, and I’m afraid of what I’ll say if I don’t take a second to breathe. “She really asked for me?”

Emma wraps her arms around her shoulders as if she were cold inside the warm train station. Her bottom lip quivers for a second, but then she speaks. “She’s been asking for you throughout the past week now…but she’s been thinking about you since the moment she last saw you.”

I feel a bit confused by what she’s saying. I suppose Amelia could have mentioned me, though I can’t imagine it being an easy topic for her to bring up due to our unusual circumstance. “Did she tell you our story?” I ask.

The man Emma is with places his arm around her shoulders, probably trying to calm the rest of her body that is visibly trembling with discomfort. “Her diary. It has your whole story inside. She asked me to read it, so I did.”

I place my hand on my chest, feeling the beat of my heart—and finding it thumping so hard, it scares me a little. “Well, I’ll be,” I say. “How long does she have?”

“There is no definitive time, but probably not years. We’re working on a long-term plan so she will receive the best care possible,” the man Emma is with speaks up, and I’m assuming he must be her boyfriend or husband.

“Are you Emma’s husband?” I ask, curiously

“If my grandmother has her way, he will be,” Emma laughs, and a hitched breath catches within the sweet sound.

“I’m Amelia’s doctor,” the young man says. “Jackson Beck. It’s such a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you from Emma.”

“Wait a minute,” I say, waving my hand in the air, trying to clarify some of the scattered pieces to this situation. “What does your grandmother have to do with the two of you getting married?”

Emma looks over at Jackson with an adorable smile—a look I recognize. That’s Amelia’s smile—the one she had every time I told her I loved her.

“Grams told me that her dying wish was for us to get married,” Emma tells me.

“I see she hasn’t lost her nerve,” I reply.

Emma laughs again and tucks her hair behind her shoulder. “She’s one tough cookie.”

“Take me to her, please,” I plead.

“That’s why we’re here,” Jackson says.

“How did you know when my train was coming in?” I ask them as we walk toward the parking garage signs.

“There were only a couple of trains arriving this morning from New York, so we sat here and watched all the people passing by until we saw you.”

“My goodness, you sound like me, kid.”

Emma claps her hands over her mouth and tears burst from her eyes as she flings her arms around my neck. “I’m sorry,” she cries. “I’m just so happy you’re here.”

I’m taken aback by her welcome, but at the same, it’s nice after not having any family around. I came to the United States alone, and my friends here became my family, but it’s different. It has never been like my life growing up before the war.

Jackson takes Emma’s hand and pulls it to his lips to kiss her knuckles. What a gentleman. He looks completely smitten by her. I wonder how long they have been together.

We make it out to the car. “Very nice automobile you have here, son,” I tell Jackson. “It looks like you’ve done well for yourself.”

“I’ve worked hard, sir.”

“Good for you,” I tell him. “Emma, I know I just met both of you, but I think your grandmother might be onto something here. How long have you two known each other? A year or so?”

“A week,” Emma says, appearing embarrassed as she places her hands over her cheeks to hide the pink warmth glowing across her face.

“Well, love isn’t measured by time, sweetheart. There’s nothing to be ashamed of because if it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be, and there’s not much you can do to change that. Life is too short and precious not to take a chance on love.”

“Charlie, do you need to stop anywhere before we arrive at the hospital?” Jackson asks me.

“Actually, do you mind if we stop at a pastry shop first? I’m quite hungry,” I tell him.

“Absolutely,” Jackson says.

He kindly pulls into a small parking lot in front of an old-fashioned bakery. “I’ll just be a moment.”

The shop is somewhat empty, and I’m able to check out within a matter of minutes. “Did you find what you needed?” Jackson asks as I slip back into his car.

“I did. Thank you very much,” I offer.

It doesn’t take long before we pull into another parking lot—it looks like the doctor’s parking area. Jackson opens my door first and runs around to open Emma’s door too, though she’s already opened it by the time he gets there. “I told you that you don’t have to keep doing that,” she says quietly along with a soft love tap to his arm.

“I want to,” he says.

She rolls her eyes at him and laughs. “You’re a goof, but a chivalrous one.”

She is her grandmother.

Emma appears more nervous than I am as we take the elevator up to the eighth floor. I feel like the world is moving toward me in slow motion as we walk down the hall. I’ve been waiting so long for this day that I’m scared I may wake up from this dream again, and as usual, it won’t be real. We turn the corner, and in an instant, it feels as if time stood still. It doesn’t matter how many years have passed. It doesn’t matter that she has white hair and that there are lines on her face. She is still the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

“Amelia, my darling. You look as beautiful today as the last time I saw you,” I say as I walk toward her. The surprised glimmer in her eyes tells me that Emma wanted to keep my arrival a secret, which makes me happy. I’ve wondered what the look on Amelia’s face might be if we were to run into each other unexpectedly. This was the look I imagined.

“Charlie?” she says, recognizing me immediately. Her eyes are open wide, and tears trickle down her cheeks.

I take her hands in mine and immediately feel the undying connection between us. I remember the sensation running through my body as if it were only yesterday that I laid eyes on her for the first time.

I haven’t cried since that day when they took me away from her, but the tears are flowing freely from my eyes now. I’m not ashamed to cry because I’ve been holding it in, waiting for this day for seventy-four years.