Dear Noah:

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful young woman named Eleanor. Her world was a fairytale of luxury and happiness, but even a perfect life has its end. Her fiancé, the love of her life, caught tuberculosis and saddly passed away, leaving Eleanor consumed by a grief. Her father, in his helplessness, bought her golden bracelets, but nothing could dull her sorrow.

In a moment of desperation, she ran away into the dense, dark woods, where she stumbled upon a single flickering light. The air grew cold, and a woman cloaked in black appeared. Eleanor knew instantly she was a witch. “Eleanor, do you wish to heal your sorrow?” the witch’s voice was a low murmur.

With tears in her eyes, Eleanor confessed, “I’ll be sad forever. I found my true love, and now he is gone.”

The witch’s lips curled into a faint smile. “What if I told you that you could have all the time in the world to find him again? You will be young and beautiful until you can find your true love.”

Eleanor, her heart pounding with a flicker of hope, pleaded, “I want that. Please, make me young and beautiful forever.”

Just as the witch had promised, time passed, and Eleanor did not change. After some time, she met and married a rich, handsome man, certain she had found her true love. But fifteen years after the curse, she still looked twenty-two. The fear of being discovered forced her to act. With a heavy heart, she had to say goodbye to her family and her husband, fleeing with a small case filled with gold.

She fled to the bustling city of Paris, where she believed her true love was waiting. For the first time, she took a job at an art gallery, where she met Paul. He was witty, kind, and not wealthy, which convinced her that their bond must be true love. He proposed, and with the word “forever” still echoing in her mind, she said yes, feeling a fleeting moment of peace, however she asked herself what she would do after the curse was broken.

But their happy life was short-lived. One night, she saw Paul on the street below, kissing another woman. She immediately packed her belongings and fled again, her heart shattered. She realized true love was not a certainty; it was just a myth, a lie. Panic set in. The thought of never aging, of being trapped in an eternal prison of youth, was scarier than any curse.

A final, desperate hope led her to board a ship for New Orleans, a place where whispers of powerful magic were as common as the humid air. One after another, the witches shrouded in shadows gave her the same answer. “You will not begin to age again until you find true love.”

That young lady had been me. I am writing this letter for you, and no, this is not a fairytale but my story.

The years blurred together in a long, weary journey across the American landscape. I searched for love in the grand promises of New York’s skyscrapers and in the illusions of Hollywood’s silver screen. My life became a series of towns, faces, and fleeting promises, and as technology advanced, it became harder and harder to disappear without a trace.

At last, I moved to a city that felt less overwhelming than New York “Chicago” I took a job as a photographer for a magazine, where I met Laura. She was in her early twenties, and she was a dreamer and one of the most genuine persons I have ever met. We saw each other every day at the office, and soon we were inseparable. We’d walk to the train together, laugh about the day, and spend afternoons by the lake. With her, I could finally focus on the present. I could simply enjoy the moment, free from the weight of my past.

I remember getting lost on the train with her, or eating ice cream on a hot summer day after work. We loved listening to the Smashing Pumpkins, the best rock group ever, or Michael Jackson. The ’90s had a whole vibe, probably it was one of my favorite eras.

It all seemed perfect until I remembered I was not like her. I was different. It was hard to think about a time when we would have to say goodbye. I thought about it for a while, knowing that revealing a secret like this wasn’t the best idea. I trusted her, and she trusted me.

One summer day, as we swam in the lake, Laura snapped a picture of me. “You look beautiful,” she said, scrolling through the images. “Not a single wrinkle.” That simple observation—a compliment—shattered the moment. The sound of her voice felt like a bell tolling, a painful reminder of the truth I couldn’t hide.

That same day, I brought her back to my small apartment. My hands were shaking. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I looked at her, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Laura,” I began, my voice barely a whisper. “If I tell you a secret, a fundamental truth about who I am, would you promise to stay with me no matter what?”

She smiled, but her eyes already held a spark of confusion. “Of course, Ellie. How can you even ask that? We’ll be together forever.”

The word “forever” resonated in my mind like the witch’s promise. “My name isn’t Ellie,” I muttered. “It’s Eleanor. And as crazy as this sounds… I stopped aging when I was twenty-two, after a witch put a curse on me.”

Laura stared at me, the color draining from her face. “You’re kidding me, right?” she asked, searching my eyes for any sign of a joke.

“I’m not,” I said, my voice breaking with the weight of a century of silence. “Look with your own eyes.” With trembling hands, I retrieved an old wooden box that no one had ever seen. I handed it to her. She opened it carefully to find old photographs from every era, a history only I knew, and the heavy golden bracelets I had carried for over a century.

“I had a loved one once,” I explained, my voice barely a whisper. “He was my true love, or at least that’s what I thought, but he died. I went to a witch. The only way I can start aging again is to find true love—he has to love me as much as I love him.”

Laura stared at me, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe, disbelief, and a profound sadness. “You’ve lived for more than a hundred and thirty years,” she finally whispered.

“It has been hard,” I confessed. “I don’t have family or real friends, except for you. I am terrified of what will happen if I never find that love.”

“Don’t say that,” Laura replied, reaching for my hand. “You have me. We’ll figure this out together.”

That night, we talked for hours. I told her about the world before electricity and telephones, a life she could only read about in history books. Our bond deepened that day, but over time, it became clear that our paths were different. She met someone special, and after two years of dating, they got married. I visited them often. Her husband, Luke, was a very kind man, and he had a good sense of humor. Laura deserved someone like him. No matter how much I loved her, I knew her world was complete in a way mine could never be. She had a complete family—an older brother, a husband—and I was alone in the world.

Laura tried to set me up with people, but I was tired of it. It felt like a performance. I had learned that true love wasn’t something you could find by constantly looking for it. As the years passed, my unchanging appearance once again became an issue. I knew it was time to move, and this time, I chose North Carolina. I bought a small house near a lake, surrounded by nature and tall mountains that reminded me how small I was in a world that moved so quickly.

Laura and I promised to keep in touch, a task made easy by the phones of the early 2000s, and she even promised to visit. Not long after, she gave me the news that she was pregnant. I was more than happy for her, but being a mother was something I had always wished for, and with the curse, I knew it wasn’t possible. I longed to be normal; I felt empty. Laura sent me pictures of the baby. He was an adorable, small, little human who looked just like her, with those big, green eyes that somehow looked like mine as well.

Nothing would ever be a fairytale, but somehow everything has a purpose. One day, Laura stopped responding to my texts and emails. A week passed without an answer, and the silence began to feel heavy and wrong.

Then, one afternoon, the phone rang with an unknown number.

“Hello,” I answered, my voice steady from decades of masking my emotions.

“Is this Miss Allison Roberts?” The man’s voice was formal, professionally detached.

I had long lost count of the names I’d worn. “Yes, speaking.”

“Miss Roberts, there has been a terrible accident. Laura and Luke Thompson had passed away while…”

I couldn’t hear the rest. Having lived for a century, I knew the chilling finality of bad news—the only problem without a solution was death. My hands began shaking violently, and my heart raced, but my mind immediately snapped to the baby.

“What about Noah? Is he okay?” I cut in, the question desperate.

“That is precisely why I am calling you, Miss Roberts. Per Mrs. Thompson’s last will and testament, she designated you to adopt her child.”

A heavy, sickening sorrow settled deep inside me, mixed with sharp, furious confusion. “Why didn’t her brother take care of the baby?” I demanded. She knew perfectly well I couldn’t stay in a single place for more than a decade without being forced to change my identity.

“Miss Roberts, we need you to come to the court on Friday. If you accept, the child will be placed in your care.”

I accepted. I was ready to face the present, even as I pushed away the inevitable fact that one day I might have to leave Noah, or he might have to escape with me. The day he came into my life, a terrifying fear took hold of me—the fear of doing something wrong, of having to leave him when my age became too obvious. That first night, I placed him in his crib and just stood there, watching the gentle rise and fall of his tiny chest. He was so small, so fragile. He needed me. And for the first time in a century, I realized I had a purpose. For the first time, I was not alone.

My life was filled with diapers, baby bottles, cries, laughs, and a beautifully messy home. It was filled with the small things that meant everything. I adopted two dogs—lively puppies that filled the silent house with joyful chaos—and bought every toy I could find for Noah. I was at every pediatrician appointment, a constant, worried presence at his side while he got shots. I was there for every milestone: his first wobbly steps, always there to catch him when he fell. I was there when his first word was “mama.”

A feeling I had never known began to grow inside of me. When he cried, my voice and my lap were a sanctuary. When he was scared, his little hand found mine, holding on with a trust I had never earned from anyone before. When he giggled, that pure, unburdened sound filled my heart with a joy I thought had died over a hundred years ago.

One winter afternoon when Noah was four, he was painted my face with crayons in the living room. His little hands moved with a serious focus, saying I would look like a lion. When he was done, he laughed with pure, unburdened joy and ran off to play with the dogs.

I went to the bathroom, and in the quiet of the small room, I looked in the mirror. With a wet cloth, I began to wipe away the green and red marks, but as I moved my hand across my forehead, I froze. My gaze landed on the hairline just above my eyebrow. It was almost invisible against my dark hair, but it was there. A single, thin, silver thread.

My heart stopped. I leaned closer, my breath catching in my throat as I reached out and touched it. It was real. A single white hair, a signal I couldn’t believe. Could it be? After a century of mirrors reflecting the same face, was I finally aging?

Suddenly, Noah ran inside the bathroom, laughing and yelling, “Mama, mama, can we play outside?”

In that instant, as I looked from the silver thread to his bright, innocent face, I understood. This was not a curse; this was a purpose. This was true love.

Ever since that day, I watched my face change: my head filled with white hair, my arms softened, and I noticed wrinkles forming on my skin. But none of that mattered, because as I aged, my sweet boy was growing up, and I was there to witness it all.

I was certain he was the reason for my new gray hairs—he tested my patience constantly. I remember the time he begged me for hockey equipment only to quit two weeks later, or the plant pots he broke playing ball inside the house, or the sheer terror I felt when he fell down the stairs while wearing skates. I suppose it was all part of the glorious chaos of being a mother. He knew he was adopted. It was something I never hid; I made sure to talk about his mother and father.

Days went slow but years went by in a blink of an eye, and my boy was no longer a child but a grown man, time has passed quickly. Believe it or not, my dear Noah, I am writing this letter to tell you the truth. I want you to know that ever since that day, I saw myself getting wrinkles, more white hair, and all the signs of age that told me my curse was finally broken. I expected to find love in the form of a strong man who would kiss me and tell me how beautiful I was. But instead, I found love and comfort day by day, watching you grow. I have no regrets. You made my days count, and after many years, I am so proud to see the man you have become. But soon, my dear boy, we will have to say goodbye.

“Remember, my sweet boy, the most beautiful fairytales are the ones we live. Keep my last golden bracelet close, and it will carry my memory with you, forever.”