“Everything is yours,” said the 70-year-old millionaire to his wife with his last breath.
Emily walked into the bank for money—and was left speechless.
When Emily married James Anderson, she was twenty-five years old.
He was sixty-three. Everyone around her whispered, “What are you doing? He’s an old man.”
Her friends rolled their eyes, her mother cried. But she stayed silent. They couldn’t understand.
He was the only one who didn’t ask her to be someone else.
Who didn’t teach her how to live, didn’t try to change her, didn’t suffocate her.
He was reserved, quiet. He spoke little, but in his words, there was more warmth than in hours-long speeches from others.
He taught her to drink coffee without sugar. He taught her the beauty of shared silence.
He looked at her as if he saw not just youth—but soul.
Seven years passed. He grew sicker with time.
She changed his IVs, read him books aloud, recorded his breathing—just so she could remember.
On the final evening, when the doctors were already saying, “Prepare yourselves,” he called her over, squeezed her hand, and whispered:
“Everything is yours, Emily. Everything I have. I never wanted to burden you with my wealth, but now… now it’s time. I’ve arranged everything.”
Emily kissed his dry, spotted fingers. It wasn’t about money anymore.
She would have given any fortune just to keep him by her side.
“I don’t want anything, James. I want you.”
He smiled faintly, his blue eyes—still piercing—filled with tears.
“I was blessed with you for seven years. More than I ever deserved. Don’t mourn my death. Celebrate my life. And go to the bank. You’ll understand.”
Those were his last words. His hand suddenly went limp in hers.
Emily stayed by his side until morning, her head resting on his still chest, counting the seconds that separated her from their shared past.
At the funeral, many people came. Most of them she didn’t know—businessmen, partners, former colleagues.
A few approached her, shook her hand, tried to talk about business, investments—but she didn’t have the strength to listen.
“Not now,” whispered James’s lawyer, Mr. Johnson, a stocky man who had stood by her husband’s side for thirty years. “Let her mourn her husband.”
The day after the funeral, Mr. Johnson came to her house.
He brought a plain brown envelope.
“You have an appointment at the bank tomorrow at 10 a.m.,” he said simply.
“James left strict instructions. I can’t tell you more.”
Emily didn’t sleep that night. The house was too big, too empty without him.
She wandered through the rooms where James had spent his final months.
She remembered every conversation, every silence.
She fell asleep in his armchair, surrounded by the scent of his cologne.
The next morning, she entered the National Bank at exactly 10 a.m.
She was dressed simply, in black, with sunglasses that hid her red eyes.
The receptionist led her straight to the top floor, into a spacious office.
“We’ve been expecting you, Mrs. Anderson,” said the bank director, standing up. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Emily replied automatically. It was a phrase she’d heard a hundred times over the past days.
“Please, follow me,” the director continued. They took a private elevator below the bank level.
Extra security. Retina scan. Fingerprint verification.
Emily watched it all detachedly, as if watching a movie.
They reached a room with only a desk, two chairs, and a massive safe embedded in the wall.
“Mr. Anderson left very specific instructions,” the director explained, opening the safe. “This is for you.”
He handed her a pen and a document.
“Sign here, please.”
Emily signed automatically, without reading. What did it matter now?
The director removed a USB stick, a bank book, and a sealed letter from the safe.
“I’ll leave you alone,” he said discreetly and exited.
Emily sat still for several minutes. Then, with trembling hands, she opened the letter.
My dearest Emily,
If you’re reading this, it means I’m no longer by your side.
I’m sorry I left you alone. But you’ll never truly be alone.
You may wonder why I brought you here, to the bank.
People think my wealth lies in money, properties, stocks.
That’s only partly true.
The bank book contains 50 million euros.
It’s more than enough to live comfortably for the rest of your life.
But my true legacy is on the USB stick.
Over the last seven years with you, I learned what happiness truly means.
And I realized my greatest wealth isn’t in a vault—it’s in our memories.
This stick holds a recording of every single day we spent together.
Hidden cameras, microphones, everything.
Every conversation, every hug, every silence.
I hired the best tech team in the world to develop a program that compiles these moments into a full virtual reality simulation.
Yes, I know it sounds crazy. But the technology is real, even if the world isn’t ready for it yet.
Put on the VR headset in the box next to the monitor and press play.
You’ll be able to relive any moment of our life together.
See me, hear me, even feel my touch.
It’s experimental technology, but it works.
I didn’t want to tell you before.
I wanted you to live each moment with me as if it were the last.
And now, you can revisit those moments whenever you wish.
Everything is yours, Emily.
My entire life.
All our memories.
Forever.
Yours for eternity,
James
Emily sat frozen, the letter in her hands. Her mind refused to process it. It seemed impossible. And yet…
She plugged the stick into the computer. The screen came to life.
A simple interface. A timeline of the past seven years.
Glowing dots marked the milestones: first date, proposal, wedding, vacations, deep conversations.
With shaking hands, Emily took the VR headset and placed it on her face.
She tapped the first dot on the timeline.
The image was perfectly clear.
It was the restaurant where they first met.
She could smell the food, hear the clinking of cutlery, the background chatter.
And then she saw James—seven years younger, with that same gentle smile, those same eyes that saw beneath the surface.
“May I sit?” his voice asked—so real, Emily’s heart skipped a beat.
She pulled the headset off, overwhelmed. Tears streamed down her face.
She looked again at the letter, then at the stick.
It was more than wealth. It was their life, perfectly preserved. Forever.
A gentle knock at the door. The bank director stepped in.
“Is everything alright, Mrs. Anderson?”
Emily wiped her tears and nodded.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Everything’s perfect.”
She left the bank in the morning sunlight, clutching the stick and the bank book.
For the first time since James’s death, she felt a little peace.
She knew her evenings wouldn’t be completely empty.
She would be able to see him again, hear him, relive each moment.
But as she walked home, a doubt crept in.
How healthy was it to live in the past?
To replay the same moments again and again, knowing there would never be new ones?
Once home, Emily placed the stick in a drawer.
She wasn’t ready. Not yet.
She still needed time to grieve—not through a simulation, but for real.
Three months later, on a rainy evening, Emily took the stick out.
She connected the VR headset and chose a random moment from the timeline.
It was an ordinary Sunday.
She and James were sitting on the couch, reading.
They weren’t even talking.
Just existing together, in that comforting silence they had built.
“I miss you,” she whispered into the empty room.
James in the simulation looked up from his book, as if he heard her.
He smiled, then returned to his reading.
Emily removed the headset, overwhelmed.
She realized James had given her an extraordinary gift—but also a burden.
She could lose herself in these memories, refuse to move on.
Or she could use them to heal, to remember that she had been deeply loved—and that this love didn’t vanish with the person.
The next day, Emily took the first step toward the future.
She donated half of the money James had left to medical research for the disease that took him.
She started a foundation in his name.
And that evening, she put on the VR headset and chose the moment James had first told her, “I love you.”
She drank in his words, his gestures, his gaze—knowing this wasn’t a replacement for life, but a treasure that would give her strength to keep living.
“Everything is mine,” she whispered into the darkness.
“Including the right to live.”
James from the memory smiled, as if in approval.
“And that’s the greatest wealth you ever gave me,” Emily added, making a decision.
She would not live in the past.
But she would never forget it.
And when the longing grew too strong, she would return to those moments—a priceless gift.
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