The Letter

The Letter

It was a quiet afternoon. In one corner of the city, Anik sat on the veranda of an old house. Five years had passed since he left, and now he had returned to Dhaka, carrying a dusty backpack and an old envelope in his hand. On the envelope, in faded handwriting, it said: “For Anik.”

The house looked just as it had always been, as though time had stopped at its doorstep. Silence hung in the air, broken only by the occasional caw of a crow. The kapur tree still stood by the gate, casting shade on the weathered bench where Anik used to sit, listening to his grandmother’s bedtime stories.

Everything changed five years ago, on a stormy night, when a tragic accident took away both his parents. Anik had just started university. He buried his sorrow in his grandmother’s arms, but as time passed, anger and grief began to grow inside him. Despite her love and care, he felt abandoned, orphaned, lost. One day, without telling anyone, he left for Canada, not looking back.

And now, a letter had called him home.

Slowly, Anik pushed open the front door. The key was exactly where his grandmother always kept it—beneath the flower vase on the porch. As if she had known he would come back one day. He stepped inside. The familiar smell of old wood and dust welcomed him. Everything was in place—his parents’ photo on the wall, his grandmother’s hand-stitched pillows, and the wooden dining table where they once sat together for dinner.

On that table sat the envelope—the letter meant for him.

“My dearest Anik,

I knew you would return one day. Maybe late, maybe with sorrow in your heart. But this house, this air—you carry it within you, whether you realize it or not.

I understood your anger. I never blamed you. I only wanted you to find your own path, in your own way.

I knew you’d be okay in Canada. But sometimes, I hoped a letter from me might guide you back home.

Inside the pen drive are some old videos of your parents. On the days you feel like no one loved you, watch them.

In your father's smile, you will see your reflection. In your mother’s songs, you’ll hear your childhood.

Come home, Anik. I may not be here anymore, but this house will always be yours.

– Granny" Tears welled up in Anik’s eyes. A strange warmth crept through his chest. All these years, he believed he had been alone. However, this one letter revealed a love world that he had shied away from. He had blamed everyone else and run away—when, in truth, he had been fleeing from himself.

He opened the pen drive and plugged it into the old desktop still sitting in the study. One by one, memories came to life—his father teaching him to ride a bicycle, his mother singing Tagore songs, birthday parties, laughter, his grandmother feeding him sweet rice pudding with her hands.

The dam broke. Anik wept—years of bottled-up sorrow, guilt, and love pouring out all at once. He stood by the window, watching as the sun began to dip westward. Shadows stretched long across the yard.

Outside, kids were playing football in the alley, shouting with joy. A fruit vendor called from his van. The familiar scent of jackfruit, banana, and dust from the old city wrapped around him like a forgotten lullaby.

For the first time in years, Anik felt like he was home.

He picked up a broom and began to clean. He dusted the shelves, changed the curtains, boiled water for tea.

It was his way of saying:

"I’m home, Grandma. And this time, I’m staying."