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Some love stories begin with a glance across a crowded room.
But for Miles and Eleanor, it began with a long-distance business deal—and a single phone call.
The two, both well into their golden years, were the respective owners of a small, family-owned hardware chain and a specialty lumber mill. They were both respected in their industries but had never crossed paths until a major construction project in a bustling city brought them together.
The first phone calls were strictly professional. Miles, with his deep, commanding voice, carried the confidence of decades spent negotiating contracts. Eleanor, measured and precise, had a sharp eye for loopholes and never let one slip past her. They were evenly matched—worthy adversaries—testing each other on logistics, price points, and delivery schedules. Every exchange was brisk, efficient, and all business.
But as the weeks of negotiation wore on, their conversations began to drift. They’d finish discussing the intricacies of the supply chain and linger on the line for a moment longer.
Miles would ask about the weather in Eleanor’s city, and she would tell him, not just with a number, but with a description of the gray sky and the damp chill.
Eleanor would inquire about the sound of a distant sawmill she sometimes heard in the background, and Miles would explain the process with a patient warmth that surprised them both.
They learned about each other in fragments: Miles’s love for classic vinyl records, Eleanor’s passion for restoring antique furniture, the shared experience of raising families and now navigating the quiet of an empty nest.
Their lives were on opposite sides of the country, and their interactions existed solely through the static of a phone line. They never saw a picture of the other, forming their images based on the sound of a laugh or a brief pause of consideration before a reply.
This anonymity allowed them to be more open and honest than they had been in years, speaking not as a businessman or a businesswoman, but simply as Miles and Eleanor.
This The final deal was signed and sealed, and their professional reason for talking had ended. But neither could bring themselves to end the call, to sever the connection they had so carefully built.
“I suppose that’s that, then,” Miles said, the finality heavy in his voice.
“I suppose so,” Eleanor replied softly.
And so, they continued their long-distance relationship, sustained by phone calls and a growing, unspoken affection. They often talked of their age and the miles that separated them felt daunting.
“We’re not exactly spring chickens anymore,“ Miles joked one evening, the humor thin.
Eleanor’s response was more somber. “I know. And that’s what scares me. Time isn’t on our side, not like it used to be. We have to start with our lives now, not next year.”
This realization became their turning point. The risk of never meeting was a far “greater fear” than the challenges of a long-distance relationship.
For two people who had spent a lifetime making careful, calculated decisions, this was a leap of faith. It was a deal with the future, and they both knew the terms had to be honored.
The Ultimate Truths in Life 