Rain came late in the afternoon. Not heavy or cold, but persistent—soft enough to blur the edges of the world, loud enough to fill the silence of an empty house.
Clara stood in the attic, surrounded by boxes that hadn't been touched in years. Dust hung like memory in the air. A single bulb swung above her, its light flickering slightly, like it, too, was remembering.
She tugged open the nearest box.
Inside were old postcards, brittle newspaper clippings, faded ribbons once tied around birthday gifts. Clara sifted through them absently—until her fingers caught on a small, red envelope.
There was no name. No stamp. Just a delicate cursive "M" on the front.
She opened it slowly.
> You told me not to wait. I didn't listen.
I came back every year. I watched the sea and waited for a light that never came on.
And yet I kept writing you letters, even if I never sent them.
Maybe because the words needed somewhere to live, even if it wasn't with you.
Clara's breath hitched.
There were more envelopes below it. Dozens. Some sealed. Some opened, their paper fragile with time. All of them addressed to "M." None of them sent.
She sank to the floor, legs folding under her, as she picked up one marked 1969.
> It's been a year. The first I haven't come back. I'm trying to move on.
But the truth is, even my happiness tastes a little like you.
She set it aside and opened another. Then another.
Time passed in waves.
Each letter layered a new emotion—grief, longing, anger, tenderness. Thomas had stopped waiting, but his heart hadn't. He had built a sanctuary of unwritten truths, one letter at a time.
Clara looked around the attic, blinking through tears.
How many things do we keep hidden in the corners of our lives?
How many feelings are too fragile to send, but too powerful to throw away?
As she gathered the letters, she realized something: these weren't just for Gran. They were also for her. A record of how love could endure, even when it changed form. Even when it was never fully returned.
She gathered the envelopes in her lap like a bouquet of ghosts.
Downstairs, she could hear Elias setting the kettle on the stove. His footsteps were familiar now, his presence like a steady breath in a storm.
She held one letter close.
This one was dated 1975—the year Clara's mother was born.
> She named her Margaret.
I hope that means something.
Clara froze.
Her fingers trembled.
That couldn't be—
She read it again. Slower this time.
Margaret had named her daughter after herself. But what if—?
She stood suddenly, heart pounding.
There was more to this story. More than love. More than longing.
There was a question waiting to be asked.
And Clara was no longer afraid to ask it.