The Letter in the Attic

When Emma inherited her grandmother’s old farmhouse, she never expected it to come with mysteries. The place smelled of dust and faded memories, but she found comfort in the creaking floors and the overgrown garden. On her first night, she couldn’t sleep. The wind whispered through the cracks, and the old house felt alive.

At dawn, Emma decided to explore the attic. She had always been warned as a child not to go up there, but now, curiosity got the better of her. The narrow wooden stairs groaned under her weight as she climbed up, her flashlight beam dancing across cobwebs and forgotten trunks.

She found an old trunk tucked away in a corner. Its brass latch was rusty but opened with a gentle push. Inside were yellowed linens, a broken porcelain doll, and an envelope sealed with red wax. Her grandmother’s name was written on it in elegant cursive — Margaret Rose, 1945.

Emma sat cross-legged on the dusty floor, her heart beating fast. She broke the seal and unfolded the delicate paper. The letter was from a soldier named Thomas, written during World War II. He wrote about stolen kisses under the apple tree, dreams of coming home, and a promise to marry her after the war. The last lines read:

"If you find this, Maggie, know that my love never left these walls. Wait for me under the apple tree."

Emma’s breath caught. She remembered the gnarled apple tree in the backyard — the one her grandmother always sat under every spring. Tears welled in her eyes as she realized her grandmother had waited for Thomas her whole life.

Driven by a sudden impulse, Emma went to the garden and stood under the apple tree. She felt the breeze rustle the branches, as if whispering secrets. Beneath the roots, she found a small, rusted tin box. Inside was a silver locket with a faded photo of young Margaret and Thomas in uniform.

Emma held the locket to her chest. The past and present mingled in that moment — a promise kept, a love that never died. She knew then that she wouldn’t sell the farmhouse. She’d restore it, plant more apple trees, and keep the story alive for the next generation.

Sometimes, the past finds its way back to remind us that love — true love — never really leaves.

📖 Story 2

Title: The Man Who Spoke to Shadows

Subtitle: Sometimes the voices in the dark know more than we think.

Jasper had always been different. As a child, he spoke to things no one else could see. His parents chalked it up to an overactive imagination, but the shadows in his room would flicker and whisper when the lights went out.

At thirty-five, Jasper lived alone in a small apartment above a rundown bookstore. He avoided crowds and spent his nights reading old tomes about folklore and spirits. He worked at the bookstore for cash and silence — just how he liked it.

One rainy night, while closing up, Jasper heard a faint voice calling his name. He froze, thinking it was a customer who had stayed behind. But the shop was empty — except for the shadows that seemed thicker than usual.

“Jasper…” the voice sighed again, drifting from the far corner.

He followed it to an old mirror leaning against the wall. The glass was cracked, but in the reflection, he didn’t see himself. He saw a dark shape with glowing eyes.

“Who are you?” Jasper whispered.

The shadow tilted its head. “We’ve watched you since you were born. You listen when others don’t. We have something for you.”

Against his better judgment, Jasper reached out and touched the glass. Cold shot through his veins. Suddenly, he saw visions — hidden things. The old man who stole from the cash register, the neighbor who cried herself to sleep, the girl who left roses on the doorstep every Sunday morning.

The shadows spoke secrets — truths no one wanted known. They whispered names, lies, and promises. Jasper recoiled, but a strange calm settled over him. For the first time, he felt like he belonged.

He didn’t run. Instead, he turned off the lights and sat in the dark, listening. The shadows told him where to find a missing cat, how to fix the bookstore’s rotting beams, how to soothe his aging landlord’s pain.

People in the neighborhood started calling Jasper “the Listener.” Some thought him mad. Others swore he performed miracles. Jasper never spoke of the shadows — he simply listened, and in return, the darkness shared its secretsIn a world full of noise, Jasper had found his calling in the quiet whispers of things unseen. Sometimes, he thought, it’s the shadows that know us best.