In the letter, he confessed: life had not been easy for him.

No career, no wealth — just a constant struggle to survive. He couldn’t afford the trip, and it broke his heart.

He wrote that for all forty years he remembered our pact, but time and circumstances had deprived him not only of the ability to come, but also of contact with us. All numbers, all addresses were lost.

“I searched for a thread for a long time, — he wrote. — And when I accidentally managed through acquaintances to reach someone in your city, I asked only one thing: print this letter and attach it to our bench. So that you know — I haven’t forgotten you. I was with you in thought. Always.”

These lines pierced our souls.

We read the letter to the end — and there were his address, the contacts he had left with such effort. We looked at each other, and the decision was made instantly: we would not sit here and grieve. If he could not come to us — then we would go to him.

Already the next day we were on our way. The long journey did not feel heavy — in our chests burned the fire of that promise we made as boys.

And then came the moment of the meeting. When he opened the door and saw the three of us on the doorstep, his eyes filled with tears. We embraced, and time seemed to disappear — as if those forty years had never existed.

At that moment we understood: true friendship endures everything — poverty, distance, years. And the most important thing was that we were together again. Complete. Real. Happy.