When Julian moved into the crumbling Paris apartment, he didn’t expect much. The walls creaked, the windows groaned — but the rent was cheap, and the view was perfect.

On his second night, he found the first letter tucked between two floorboards. It was dated 1973.
"To whoever finds this, I hope you're kinder to this world than we were."

Her name was Claire. She wrote about protests, music, lost love, and her fear that no one would ever remember her voice. Each week, he found a new letter. Each more intimate than the last. He felt like he knew her — her sarcasm, her longing. He wrote back, slipping letters into the floor, feeling foolish.

Until one day, a new letter arrived:
"Julian… I got your note. I don’t know how, but I felt it. Maybe time bends in old places."

Now, every night, Julian writes. Not to the past — but to Claire. In some strange miracle of time, they’ve found each other.
And even if no one else ever understands, he knows this:
Some connections outlive time.