In the quiet town of Elmridge, nestled between rolling hills and silent woods, lived an old man named Arthur Wren. Every morning, like clockwork, he would sit by the window of his ivy-covered cottage, a steaming mug of tea in hand, gazing out at the winding road that had long since forgotten its travelers.
Arthur was once a postman—Elmridge’s most beloved. Rain or shine, he delivered letters with a smile, always taking time to chat with lonely souls and share warmth only human presence could provide. But the world had changed. The letters stopped coming. Phones rang instead, and Arthur, untouched by technology, became a relic in a world that no longer waited for ink to dry.
Then, on a foggy morning in late autumn, a curious thing happened.
A letter arrived.
No stamp. No sender.
Just Arthur’s name in delicate handwriting that trembled like a secret.
He stared at it for hours, fingers brushing over the paper’s worn edge. When he finally opened it, the words inside hit like a memory:
"Dearest Arthur,
If you're reading this, then my silence has lasted too long. I’ve missed you all these years, every Sunday we never spoke, every birthday we never shared. But I remember the way you made people feel, and I never forgot how you made me feel—seen, even when I tried to disappear.
—Clara."
Arthur’s hands shook. Clara was the artist who once lived near the lake, the woman he’d silently loved for decades, their moments brief but eternal. She had moved away after her gallery closed—years ago now.
That day, Arthur put on his old postman’s coat and walked to the lake. It had been years since he’d been there. On the bench where she used to sketch, a single envelope lay waiting.
He sat, read, and for the first time in years, wrote a reply.
They say he comes every week now, always finding a new letter waiting. No one knows who leaves them.
But some believe Elmridge still holds onto the magic of old love, long-lost words, and the echoes of the last letter.
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