I never meant to spy on her. But when I saw that little girl with pigtails slipping letters into an abandoned mailbox, my curiosity got the better of me. What I discovered would force me to face the ghosts I had been running from for two years.
I woke up to the sound of nothing. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of this old house settling into its foundation. My eyes drifted to the empty pillow beside me, still perfectly fluffed from when I made the bed yesterday.
Two years ago, my mornings were filled with the scent of brewing coffee, the rustle of newspaper pages turning, and Sarah’s sleepy smile when she’d catch me staring at her. Now, it was just me and the silence that followed me from room to room like an unwanted shadow.
“Another thrilling day in paradise,” I muttered to the empty kitchen as I poured myself a cup of coffee.
My life had become painfully predictable after Sarah died. Work, eat, sleep, repeat. I had perfected the art of existing without living. My freelance editing job allowed me to stay at home for weeks without speaking to anyone beyond the grocery store cashier.
Suddenly, my phone buzzed on the counter. It was my sister. Again. This was her third call this week. I watched it ring until it stopped.
I’ll call her back, I told myself. Just like I had told myself last week. And the week before that.
One evening, as I collected my mail, I noticed something unusual mixed in with the usual stack of bills and advertisements. A small, unstamped envelope with childish handwriting that read simply, “To Dad.”
I stood on my porch, staring at the envelope. It clearly wasn’t meant for me. Turning it over in my hands, I wondered how it had found its way into my mailbox. Inside was a single sheet of notebook paper covered in careful, rounded handwriting.
Dear Dad,
I’m sorry I was mad at you the day before you left. I didn’t mean those things I said. Mom says you can still hear me, even though you’re in heaven now. I hope that’s true.
I got an A on my science project. It was about butterflies. Remember how we used to catch them in the backyard? I miss doing that with you.
I love you a billion stars.
Lily
I read it twice, each word landing like a stone in my chest. Sarah and I had talked about having kids. We had even picked out names. Back then, we had no idea we were planning a future that would never come.
“To Dad,” I whispered, running my finger over the words. I never got to be anyone’s dad.
I folded the letter carefully and slipped it back into its envelope. The right thing to do would be to return it. I had seen a young girl playing in the yard a few houses down. I thought I’d start from there.
The woman who answered the door looked exhausted, the kind of exhaustion that sleep doesn’t fix. When I explained about finding the letter, her expression shifted from confusion to understanding.
“Lily’s father passed away last year,” she said quietly. “She still writes to him sometimes. It helps her cope.”
“I understand,” I replied, my voice rougher than I intended. “Loss is… complicated. The letter somehow ended up in my box, so I wanted to make sure she got it back.”
She took the envelope with a grateful nod. “Thank you for bringing it back. It means more than you know.”
As I walked home, a question nagged at me. If Lily writes letters to her father, where does she put them? Clearly not in her home mailbox if this one had somehow ended up in mine.
A few days later, I spotted Lily while I was taking out the trash. She was walking down the street clutching another envelope, her dark pigtails bouncing with each step. Instead of heading toward her house, she stopped at an old, rusted mailbox in front of the abandoned Miller place.
No one had lived there for years.
I watched as she glanced around nervously before slipping the letter inside. There was something secretive about her movements, like she was performing a ritual no one else was supposed to see.
That night, on my way back from a rare evening walk, I found myself standing in front of that rusted mailbox. Almost without thinking, I flipped open the mailbox.
It was empty.
Someone was taking them.
The next evening, I found myself sitting in my car across from the abandoned house. As twilight settled over the neighborhood, a figure approached the rusted mailbox. He was tall and thin, with hunched shoulders like he was carrying an invisible weight. The man glanced around furtively before reaching into the mailbox and retrieving Lily’s latest letter. He held it with unexpected gentleness before slipping it into his jacket pocket.
I waited until he was halfway down the block before following him at a distance. He led me to a small apartment complex on the edge of town. I watched as he unlocked number 14 and disappeared inside.
I debated what to do next. Instead of walking away, I knocked.
The door opened to reveal a man about my age, though life had been harder on him. His eyes widened in alarm.
“I saw you take the letter from the mailbox. The one from Lily,” I said.
His shoulders sagged. “You’d better come in.”
The apartment was sparsely furnished. He gestured toward a chair while he remained standing. “I’m Daniel. I’m… her father’s brother.”
He pulled open a drawer. Inside was a stack of envelopes, all with Lily’s handwriting.
“I found the first one by accident while checking the old house last winter. My brother and I grew up there.”
“And you’ve been collecting them ever since?”
“Yes. I should have responded. But… I didn’t know how.” He pulled out another stack. “These are my responses. I never had the courage to send them.”
His words hit me harder than I expected. Hadn’t I been doing the same thing? Pushing away friends, ignoring family, all to avoid the pain of moving forward without Sarah?
“She probably thinks you don’t care,” I said.
Daniel flinched. “I know. That’s the worst part.”
The next morning, I made a decision. I knocked on Lily’s door and explained everything to her mother. Later that evening, I brought Daniel back with me.
When Lily saw him, her eyes widened in shock.
“Uncle Danny? Where have you been?” she asked, her voice small but clear.
Daniel’s eyes filled with tears. “I was scared,” he admitted. “I was a coward. And I hate myself for it.”
Lily stepped forward and hugged him. “I missed you.”
Daniel reached into his jacket and pulled out the letters. “I read every single one. And I wrote back.”
Lily took them with wide eyes. “I’ll read them all, I promise.”
As they reconnected, I slipped away. That night, instead of going home, I walked toward the cemetery.
“Hey, Sarah,” I whispered at her grave. “I think I’m ready to start living again.”
That night, my phone buzzed. It was an old friend.
I picked up.
“Mark? Is that really you?”
“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “It’s me. Sorry it took so long.”
Sometimes, healing begins with a single conversation. And sometimes, a lost letter finds its way exactly where it needs to be.