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.
The morning started like every other. 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 had been 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.
On top of that, my freelance editing job enabled 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 standard envelopes. 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. I thought 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 tired, 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 came into 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, I found myself standing in front of that rusted mailbox. Almost without thinking, I flipped it open.
It was empty.
Someone was taking them.
Who would take letters meant for a dead man? And why?
For the first time in months, I felt something other than the dull ache of my own grief. It was a spark of protective anger and curiosity that refused to be ignored.
Little did I know this spark would lead me to something I wasn’t expecting.
The next evening, I sat in my car across from the abandoned house, watching. 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.
He reached into the mailbox and retrieved Lily’s latest letter. He held it with unexpected gentleness before slipping it into his jacket pocket.
I followed him to a small apartment complex on the edge of town.
I hesitated before knocking on his door. When he answered, his eyes widened in alarm.
“Can I help you?” His voice was wary.
“I saw you take Lily’s letter,” I said. “Why?”
His shoulders sagged. “You’d better come in.”
The apartment was sparsely furnished but clean. Books were stacked on every surface, and a small desk in the corner was covered with papers.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Daniel. I’m… her father’s brother.”
Daniel walked to the desk and 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. My brother and I grew up there.”
“And you’ve been collecting them ever since.”
“Yes,” he admitted, ashamed. “I know I should have responded, but… I didn’t know how. I had a falling out with my brother before he died. I meant to visit, but I never did. Then it was too late.”
At that point, I realized I was looking at a reflection of myself.
Hadn’t I been doing the same thing? Pushing away friends, ignoring family, all to avoid facing my grief?
The next morning, I made a decision.
Instead of walking past Lily’s house like I usually did, I stopped and knocked. I told her mother everything.
That evening, after much convincing, Daniel stood beside me on Lily’s porch.
“I can’t do this,” he whispered.
“Yes, you can,” I said and knocked before he could change his mind.
Lily appeared in the hallway. When she saw Daniel, her eyes widened.
“Uncle Danny? Where have you been?”
Daniel’s voice cracked. “I was scared, Lily. But I never stopped thinking about you. I read every single letter. And I wrote back.” He pulled out a bundle of letters. “I just never sent them.”
Lily took them, her fingers tracing the handwriting. Tears welled in her eyes. “You kept them?”
“Every single one.”
She threw her arms around him. “I missed you.”
As they reconnected, I realized something. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means finding the courage to move forward.
And as I walked home that night, I finally answered my sister’s call.
