I used to think my days would always be the same: black coffee from my father’s old copper pot, the crossword puzzle spread out on the table, and the constant interruptions from my neighbor Gloria, who seemed to think I needed her more than I wanted her.
But the morning the postman knocked with a bundle of letters lost for twenty years, everything changed.
I always wake up at six a.m., even if there’s no reason to. It’s a habit burned into me from my years at the post office. Once your body learns early mornings, it won’t let you sleep in, no matter how much you want to.
My alarm clock now isn’t a buzzer — it’s the creak in my knees and the complaints in my back. Some people meditate.
Others scroll through their phones. Me? I brew my coffee in my father’s old copper cezve. And yes, I drink it black, no sugar. My dad used to say:
“Sweetness kills courage.”
I never knew if he was right, but that line stuck with me. Now it’s my ritual.
That morning, just as I sat down with my paper, the window sighed. That’s how I know Gloria’s peeking in from her yard. She always knows when I’m awake. I swear she sets her clock by my coffee.
“Morning, Walter!” she called out, her voice high and sharp, like a kettle about to whistle. “You’re up early. Again.”
“Gloria, it’s called discipline,” I muttered from behind the paper. “Some of us have it.”
Five minutes later, I heard the creak of my porch steps. She was already there, holding a basket like it was a golden ticket. Inside were buns and jam, soft and sweet — her usual bribe to get inside.
“Thought you could use some company,” she said, handing me the basket with a smile that was a little too eager.
“Company? I’ve got the crossword,” I said flatly.
She chuckled, brushing off my words. “Walter, you can’t spend all your days with puzzles. This house is too big for one person. You need someone here. Someone like… well, me.”
I set the basket down on the step.
“You mean someone to boss me around? My late wife already held that title.”
Her face fell, but she forced another smile. “Don’t be cruel. I care about you. Who else checks if you’ve taken your pills? You think Ray, the postman, will do that?”
As if on cue, there was a heavy knock at the door. Gloria frowned, annoyed at the interruption. I opened the door and blinked. Ray, the postman, was standing there with a thick bundle of envelopes clutched in both arms.
“Since when do you deliver the mail straight into my hands, Ray?” I asked.
He shifted from foot to foot, looking guilty.
“Well, uh… there’s been a bit of a mishap at the depot. Some letters… didn’t get delivered. For a while.”
“Speak clearly,” I barked. “How long is a while?”
He swallowed. “Couple of decades, maybe. Twenty years.”
Before I could reach for the letters, Gloria darted forward and snatched the bundle from his hands.
“That can’t be! All these addressed to—” She stopped herself, clutching them tight.
“Gloria, give them here,” I said sharply.
“No, Walter, it’s probably a mistake—”
“Gloria! They’re mine.”
I tore the bundle from her grasp. The envelopes were yellowed and their corners worn, but every one bore my name. My heart hammered as I ripped one open with trembling fingers. Inside was a child’s uneven handwriting.
“Dear…” it began.
The room spun. My knees buckled and I sank into the chair by the door.
Gloria’s voice rattled on about scams and tricks, but I didn’t hear her. The words on the page swam before my eyes.
“I have to go,” I whispered. “I have to go. Now.”
I shoved the rest of the letters under my arm and reached for the hook by the door where my car keys hung, still attached to a rusty Ford emblem. Gloria gasped and planted herself between me and the door.
“Where are you even planning to go? You don’t know what’s waiting for you. All you know is you’ve got me here taking care of you. Who else do you think you matter to, huh?”
I brushed past her. “Apparently, someone who wrote every year for twenty years.”
“And what if it’s a lie? What if they wanted something from you — money, this house? You’ll make a fool of yourself!”
I pocketed the keys.
“Better a fool on the road than a prisoner in his own kitchen.”
She stamped her foot like a child. “One day you’ll realize I’m the only one who truly cares for you!”
I turned back just long enough to meet her eyes. “If that’s true, Gloria, then you’ll be happy for me.”
With that, I stepped onto the porch. My old Ford sat in the driveway, sun glinting off its dusty hood like it was waiting for me. I slid into the driver’s seat, set the first opened letter on the passenger side, and gripped the wheel.
The engine coughed, sputtered, then roared awake after a few stubborn tries. Behind me, Gloria shouted something I couldn’t hear. I stepped on the gas.
For twenty years, someone had been calling out to me in ink and paper. And for the first time in a long while, I felt like I finally had somewhere to go.
I drove with both hands clamped on the wheel. My chest felt tight, but I pushed on, telling myself it was just the excitement. Then the pain came sharper, sudden, under my ribs.
My hands slipped, and the Ford swerved toward the shoulder.
Everything blurred — the horn, the sky, the smell of burnt rubber…
And then nothing.
When I opened my eyes again, the ceiling was white, the air smelled of antiseptic, and someone was adjusting a drip near my arm. A nurse muttered, “You’re lucky, old man.”
Lucky wasn’t the word. Because the next voice I heard was Gloria’s.
“There you are! You gave us all quite the scare.”
I groaned, trying to sit up.
“I have to go. You don’t understand. I have to keep driving.”
Gloria leaned closer, her smile too sweet. “The doctor said it’s nervous exhaustion. And the keys to your car?” She dangled them in the air. “They gave them to me. For your own good.”
I stared at her. “You behind the wheel, Gloria? That’s more dangerous than me with a bad heart.”
Her eyes flashed. “Don’t joke. You’re not going anywhere. I’ll take you home where you belong.”
“I’m not going home.”
“You’ll have to. The car is mine now, unless you plan on walking.”
I pulled the IV out with a wince and swung my legs to the floor.
“That’s not a problem. There are plenty of other cars in this world. And some of them stop for hitchhikers.”
Before she could block me, I shuffled toward the exit. Outside, the road shimmered in the afternoon sun, and I raised my thumb to the first truck I saw coming.
“Let’s see if destiny has better brakes than you do, Gloria.”
The pickup slowed when it saw me waving. A young man leaned out the window, his grin wide.
“Need a lift, sir?”
“Unless you’re heading straight to heaven, anywhere will do,” I said, climbing in.
“City’s on my way. I can drop you there.”
“Good enough,” I muttered, clutching the bundle of letters.
We rode in silence at first. Then he glanced at me.
“So… those letters you’re carrying. Important, huh?”
I tightened my grip on the bundle. “They’re not just letters. They’re… a voice. Twenty years of it.”
“From whom?”
I let out a bitter laugh. “That’s the thing. I didn’t even know she existed. My daughter.”
“Your daughter?”
“Yeah. Apparently, her mother told her about me before she died. And that little girl… Mia… she kept writing. Every year.”
“No way… Like my mom’s name!”
“Birthdays, Christmas, and the first day of school. All those milestones a father’s supposed to share. She sent them to me. And the post lost them. Twenty years’ worth.”
The boy was silent for a moment, his eyes on the road, lights of passing cars flashing across his face. Then he said softly, “That’s… heavy. How do you even process something like that?”
“I don’t. I just know I can’t waste another day sitting in that empty house. She thought I didn’t care. That I ignored her. And maybe she hates me now. But I need her to hear me say I didn’t know.”
“You’ve got guts. Most people would hide from something like that.”
“Most people don’t have much time left. I’m not young anymore. Whatever’s waiting for me at the end of these letters… It’s my last chance.”
The boy’s grin returned. “You sound a little like me, just from the other side of life. I keep telling myself not to waste time, to chase what matters.”
I looked at him properly, feeling something warm settle in my chest.
“Then don’t. Don’t wait twenty years to answer someone’s call. You’ll regret it. Trust me.”
The glow of the city appeared ahead, growing brighter as we drew closer.
“So,” the boy said, “where should I drop you?”
I handed him the address scrawled on the last envelope. His knuckles whitened on the wheel.
“That’s… that’s my house.”
I stared at him, the letters trembling in my hands. “Your house?”
He nodded, eyes wide. “Yeah. That’s where my mom lives. And if those letters are from who I think they’re from… then you’re not just any old man. You’re my grandfather.”
The pickup slowed in front of a small house with lights glowing warmly in the windows. My hands trembled around the bundle of letters.
“She’s inside,” the boy said softly. He hesitated, then added, “I called her. Told her I was bringing someone… important.”
I turned to him. “What’s your name, son?”
“Ethan. And Mia’s my mom. Your daughter.”
The words rattled in my chest like a second heartbeat.
The porch creaked under my weight as I climbed the steps. The door opened before I could knock. Mia was there, a woman in her thirties, eyes wide, lips trembling. Her gaze locked on the letters in my hands, then lifted to my face.
“Dad?”
I nodded, my voice breaking. “I didn’t know, sweetheart. They never gave me your letters. I swear, I never knew.”
Her tears spilled over. “Ethan told me… he said you were finally coming. I waited twenty years for this.”
I held out the bundle.
“I read your first letter. And I knew I had to come.”
She pressed her hand to her mouth, then rushed forward, and suddenly she was in my arms.
Ethan’s voice came softly from behind us. “Told you, Mom. He’s here now.”
I held her tighter, feeling the years of silence crumble. “I can’t give you back those twenty years. But I can give you every day I’ve got left. If you’ll let me.”
She looked up and smiled through tears. “That’s all I ever wanted.”
For the first time in decades, I wasn’t just an old man with crosswords and coffee rituals. I was a father. A grandfather. A man who still mattered.
And as the three of us stood there on that porch, I knew: some letters aren’t lost. They’re simply waiting for the right moment to be delivered.
