The last words of the letter

Simanti slowly got off the bus. It took her several years to return to this village, leaving the hustle and bustle of the city behind. Her childhood home was now almost deserted. After her grandmother's death, the house had become frozen like an old picture hanging in the chest of time.

As she walked along the road, Simanti began to think about her grandmother. Her grandmother was an extraordinary storyteller. Her stories always had strange characters—an invisible lover, letters that traveled through time, and stories of impossible relationships. Her grandmother's stories inspired her to become a writer.

"Hey Simanti! Are you back after all this time?" Malti, the village's old aunt, called out.

Simanti smiled, "Yes, aunt, I have come to tidy up my grandmother's house a little. I need some old things for my new book."

A cloud of dust rose as the door of the old house opened. The smell of a house that had been closed for two years—old wood, dry leaves, and a vague aroma that one would have found if one had been near one's grandmother.

The banyan tree still stood in one corner of the veranda. It had grown, its branches had spread wider. The rain began to fall slowly. Simanti entered her grandmother's room. Surprisingly! Everything was just as messy as her grandmother had left it—manuscripts spread out on the table, half-finished story notebooks, and an old brown wooden box in one corner.

That box had never been opened, her grandmother had instructed. "When I leave, you will open this box. I am leaving it for you, because only you will understand its value."

Simanti pulled the wooden box and sat on the bed. The sound of rain was increasing outside. As soon as she opened the box with the sound of old hinges, Simanti saw some yellowed papers, old photographs, and a letter wrapped in a blue envelope at the bottom. The envelope read:

"Read when you have time. Don't rush."

Simanti's heart rate increased. Was this the letter that her grandmother had often told her about? "One day I will give you a letter. It will not be an ordinary letter. Its words will take refuge in your heart."

As she slowly opened the envelope, a strange aroma wafted in—like the smell of old pages, dried ink, and memories of a lost time. The letter was written with great care, in beautiful handwriting, as if someone had decorated each letter with life:

"My dear,

I wrote this letter when I only had your shadow in my eyes. Just as the light sparkles on the dewdrops when the sun rises in the morning, so your memory illuminates my every day. I know that you will never know who I am. But believe me, every word has given life for you.

We have not met, maybe we never will. But I know you—your deep eyes, which see the light inside every person. Your smile, which spreads warmth like the winter sun. Your voice, whose every word seems to fly on the wings of a bird.

But I am writing to tell you only this—that love never dies, it is not lost. It spreads word by word, story by story, from one generation to another."

Simanti stopped. Was this written by one of Grandma's lovers? But Grandma used to say that she only loved Nana! But who wrote it? The letter went further:

"You are reading my letter now. I know, the question in your mind is—'Who is this stranger?' To be honest, I don't know either. I am just that fictional character, who was born in your grandmother's pen, but is now taking shape in your mind.

This letter was written by me, the nameless lover, whom your grandmother created in the sky of her mind. I was never in reality, but I was in every story of your grandmother."

Tears came to Simanti's eyes. So this is written by her grandmother? Did she want the character in her story to reach Simanti like this? She started reading the last lines of the letter:

"Your grandmother gave birth to me, gave me life, taught me to love. Now I have come to you—as an inheritance. She knew that you love to write.

Not my name, put my story in your words. I will be—in your every sentence, in the eyes of your character, and in the silent pauses of your writing."

The rain has stopped outside. Simanti held the letter close to her chest. A question arose in her mind—who really left this letter?

She put on a jacket and went out. The old postman Rahim Chacha still lived in the village, who used to play the flute and deliver letters every evening.

When Rahim Chacha reached his house, he saw him sitting on his veranda, playing the flute.

"Uncle, I have come to ask you something," Simanti said.

A gentle light shone in Rahim Chacha's eyes, "I knew it would come one day. You opened your grandmother's box, didn't you?"

Simanti was surprised, "How did you know?"

Rahim Chacha put down the flute, "That was a long time ago. Your grandmother came, gave me this letter and said, 'If I die, when Simanti grows up, she will come to collect my things. She should get this. That girl will understand what it means.'"

Si"That was a long time ago. Your grandmother came, gave me this letter and said, 'If I die, when Simanti grows up, she will come to collect my things. She should get this. That girl will understand what it means.'"manti's voice trembled, "But who wrote this letter? Grandma herself?"

The postman closed his eyes and said, "Didn't your grandmother say that you don't need a name to know love... words are enough?"

Simanti returned home. It was evening. Lighting a candle, he sat down in front of the table, with his grandmother's notebook. Suddenly, he saw an unfinished story notebook. On the first page it was written:

"Simanti, when you read this, I will not be here. But I am giving you a gift—the characters who are alive in my story. They are yours now. Make a new story about them."

Tears rolled down Simanti's eyes. Now he understood why his grandmother always told him, "So...