At the edge of the village stood an old mailbox. It had once been red, but time had faded it into a dull shade of blue. Everyone believed the mailbox was useless, so no one dropped letters into it anymore.
But every afternoon, Rahul would stand in front of it.
Rahul's father worked in the city. Years ago, when he left, he had said, "I'll write letters." But none ever arrived. Still, Rahul never lost hope. He believed that maybe his father's letters had simply lost their way.
One day, Rahul gathered his courage and wrote a letter himself. Not for his father—for himself.
He wrote,
"If anyone reads this letter, know that I know how to wait."
He dropped the letter into the old blue mailbox.
The next afternoon, when Rahul opened the mailbox, he froze. Inside was an envelope—blue, with unfamiliar handwriting.
The letter inside said,
"Waiting is never wasted. Those who wait always find something one day—even if it's themselves."
Rahul realized then that his father's letter might never come. But this letter had taught him the true meaning of waiting.
From that day on, the mailbox was no longer abandoned. The villagers began using it again. And the blue mailbox became a symbol of hope.