The Last Letter

The night was deep and silent. Raindrops were tapping softly on the window glass. The city's hustle had long faded away, but a storm was raging in Rafique's mind. In front of him lay an old letter—handwritten, a bit faded, the handwriting slightly shaky.

Rafique was a retired postman. He had spent forty years of his life delivering letters—house to house, story to story. Love letters, letters with sad news, joyful announcements—he had carried them all. But today’s letter was different.

This letter had arrived at his own address, yet there was no sender. On the envelope, it simply said:

"For Mr. Rafique, one last time."

He slowly opened the envelope. Inside was a small note, more like a whisper on paper. It read:

"You spent your life delivering letters... but did you ever receive one of your own?"

Rafique froze. Memories of his youth rushed back. There was a girl he once loved—Laila. Quiet, transparent like glass. They shared a deep, unspoken love, but no words were exchanged. Life moved on, and Laila married elsewhere. Rafique drowned himself in work.

One day, long ago, Laila had quietly handed him a letter.

“If you ever find the courage, read it,” she had said. “If not, keep it your way.”

But Rafique never opened that letter. Until now.

With trembling hands, he opened an old trunk and found it—dusty, yellowed by time, but still sealed. Slowly, almost reverently, he broke the seal.

Inside, the words leapt out like echoes from the past:

"Rafique,

You know I’m not good with words. But standing silent in front of you hurts even more.

If you want, I could stay by your side. Just say it once. Just call me once. I will leave everything behind.

But if you stay silent, I’ll understand—I have no place in your life.

Yours,

Laila

February 3, 1987."

Tears welled up in Rafique’s eyes. All these years, he carried an emptiness that had an answer all along. He just hadn’t dared to look.

The rain still poured outside. He sat by the window, eyes closed, heart drifting to those days—soft evening light, Laila’s faint smile, and that unspoken love.

Suddenly, a knock on the door.

At this hour?

He walked slowly to the door and opened it. A young woman stood there—maybe 25 or 26, with eyes that looked strangely familiar. She said gently,

“Are you Mr. Rafique? I’m Laila’s daughter—Samiha. My mother passed away last week. Before she left, she gave me this letter to hand to you.”

She held out an envelope.

With trembling fingers, Rafique opened it. On a white sheet, Laila had written:

"I leave my last letter for you.

In this life, we couldn’t be together. But I hope—if there's another life—don’t stay silent then.

Stay well, Rafique.

– Yours,

Laila."

A soft smile crept onto Rafique’s face. The rain had finally stopped. Through the clearing clouds, the moon peeked out gently. And perhaps, in some quiet morning in another life, Rafique and Laila will find their words—and their forever.