“The Last Letter”
The letter arrived on a rainy Tuesday — thin, cream-colored, with the kind of handwriting that barely exists anymore. Eleanor studied the inked curves with a tremble in her hands, uncertain if she should open it or throw it into the fire.
It had been forty years since she’d last heard from James. Forty years since he walked down the steps of their London flat with nothing but a coat and a camera, promising to return from a war that swallowed men whole.
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The letter smelled of old paper and regret.
My dearest Eleanor,
If you’re reading this, it means I did not come back in time. Maybe not at all. But I want you to know, even now, that I never stopped thinking of you — not for a single sunrise or shelling. There are things a man never says in life that death allows him to speak. I loved you, Eleanor. More than the sky, the sea, and all the silence between them.
She read the words aloud in a whisper, as though they’d break if spoken too loudly. Her eyes, long used to reading receipts and prescriptions, welled with a youth they hadn’t known in years.
Outside, the rain began to ease, and the gray sky opened just enough to reveal a stubborn ray of sunlight.
Eleanor walked to her writing desk — the same one they had shared all those years ago — and pulled out her fountain pen. It was time to write back.
