The Library of Forgotten Letters

M Mehran

The rain had been falling for hours, painting the streets of Willow Creek in shades of silver. Claire Monroe walked quickly, clutching her coat tight as she made her way down the deserted lane. She wasn’t sure what had drawn her to the old library that night. Maybe it was the warm glow spilling from the windows, or maybe it was the way the sign above the door whispered like an old friend: The Archive of Memories.

Pushing open the heavy oak door, Claire stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of aged paper and something sweet, almost nostalgic. Rows upon rows of books stretched into the shadows, but what caught her eye was the small desk near the back—a single lamp glowing like a lighthouse in the dark.

Behind the desk sat an elderly man, his eyes soft and kind, as though he had been waiting for her.

“You’ve come for a letter,” he said before she could speak.

Claire froze. “A… letter?”

The man nodded slowly and rose from his chair, moving toward a massive cabinet filled with hundreds of tiny drawers. Each one was labeled with a name, carved in elegant handwriting.

“Whose name do I give?” he asked, pulling open a drawer and running his fingers over brittle envelopes.

Claire hesitated. “I—I don’t understand. What is this place?”

The old man smiled faintly. “A collection of words that were never delivered. Letters people wrote but never sent. Regrets, confessions, last goodbyes. They come here, somehow, and wait for the right hands to find them.”

Claire’s pulse quickened. This can’t be real. Yet something deep inside urged her to answer. “Monroe,” she whispered. “Claire Monroe.”

The man’s fingers danced across the drawers until they stopped at one marked with her name. He opened it and drew out a single yellowed envelope, sealed and addressed in handwriting that made Claire’s breath catch in her throat.

It was her mother’s handwriting.

Her mother had died twelve years ago.

Hands trembling, Claire broke the seal. Inside was a letter, ink faded but words clear:

My dearest Claire,
If you’re reading this, it means I never found the courage to tell you in life. I am sorry for leaving so many questions unanswered. You are the best part of me, and you deserve the truth about your father…

Claire sank into a nearby chair as the words blurred with tears. The letter spoke of love and mistakes, of choices made in desperation. It revealed the name of the father she had never known, the man her mother had always refused to talk about.

When she finished reading, she looked up to thank the old man—but the desk was empty. The chair rocked gently as though someone had just left.

Heart pounding, Claire ran to the door and into the storm. Across the street, the neon lights of the café flickered, and behind the glass, a man sat alone nursing a cup of coffee. He looked up as if sensing her gaze. His face was unfamiliar, yet his eyes… they were her own.

The letter trembled in her hand as she stepped off the curb.


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