In the forgotten town of Willowbrook, where the rain fell like tears from the sky, there lived an 83-year-old woman named Eleanor Wren. Her cottage, once vibrant with laughter, now sagged under the weight of decades of silence. Eleanor’s only companions were the stacks of yellowed letters piled on her kitchen table—each one addressed to her son, Thomas, who had left home at 18 to chase a dream that never came back.
Every Sunday, Eleanor wrote a new letter. *"Dearest Thomas,"* she began, her trembling hands etching promises of forgiveness, updates about the lilacs blooming by the porch, and pleas for him to visit. She sealed them with a dried violet, his favorite, and walked three miles to the post office, where the postmaster, Mr. Higgins, would sigh and stash them in a drawer labeled *UNDELIVERABLE*. Thomas had died in a car crash 40 years prior, just months after leaving home. But Eleanor’s mind, fractured by grief, had locked away the truth. To her, he was still out there—somewhere—too stubborn to write back.
One autumn evening, a storm rattled the windows as Eleanor opened her last envelope. This time, she wrote not to Thomas, but to herself: *"I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you safe."* The next morning, Mr. Higgins found her lifeless body at the post office doorstep, clutching the final letter. It bore no address, only a whisper: *"I waited until the end. Why didn’t you come?"*
When the townsfolk cleared her cottage, they uncovered hundreds of returned letters hidden beneath floorboards—all marked *DECEASED* in bold red ink. The last one, dated the day Thomas died, had never been sent. Inside was a single sentence: *"Come home, my boy. I’ll leave the light on."*
That night, the old post office burned down, taking the drawer of undelivered secrets with it. And somewhere, in the ashes, the violets finally stopped blooming.
blogpay
Total Comments: 0