The Letter at Dawn

In a small riverside town, there was an old stationery shop about to close its doors for good. The owner, Koichi, an 80-year-old man living alone, was spending his final night there.

As he paused while pulling down the shutter, he looked up at the night sky. The cicadas had gone silent, replaced by the soft tinkling of wind chimes carried on the evening breeze.

The streets were empty, wrapped in the silence that only the end of summer could bring. Somewhere in the distance, fireworks popped faintly—perhaps a final farewell from a local festival he hadn’t known was happening.

Sitting at a low table in the back of the shop, Koichi took out a piece of letter paper. Slowly but surely, he began to write.

“Dear Yumi,

It’s been 33 years since you left this world…”

Yumi had been his late wife. Together, they had run the stationery store, once filled with laughter, lively conversations, and the scent of fresh ink. Since her passing, time seemed to have stopped—not just for the shop, but for Koichi himself.

He paused. The ink had smudged slightly where his hand had trembled. He smiled, remembering how Yumi used to scold him for being too impatient when writing.

Suddenly, the doorbell chimed.

“Good evening, Grandpa.”

A girl in a red goldfish-patterned yukata stood in the doorway, holding a paper balloon. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, as if she had been running.

“It’s late, isn’t it?” Koichi asked, surprised.

“I heard the wind chimes. I thought… maybe you were still open.”

He gave a small chuckle. “It’s the shop’s final night. Are you looking for something?”

She looked around thoughtfully, then pointed at a pen and some envelopes.

“I want to write a letter. To someone I can’t see anymore.”

Koichi nodded, handing her the items without a word. There was a certain sincerity in her eyes that reminded him of Yumi when they first met.

The girl quietly took a seat and began writing. The only sounds were the scratching of the pen and the occasional creak of the summer night. The air was thick with memories, and the faint scent of old paper filled the room.

After a while, she softly said “thank you” and walked away, the sound of her wind chimes fading into the distance.

Koichi turned back to his own letter.

“The fountain pen you loved… a girl used it today. She reminded me of what it means to write a letter.

To speak from the heart, to pause and reflect. Maybe that’s why I’m still here tonight.”

He stared at the page, then added a final line:

“I still miss you, every single day.”

The clock now read 4:00 a.m. Through the curtains, a faint light hinted at the coming dawn. Birds had begun to stir.

Koichi placed the finished letter in an envelope and walked to a rusty mailbox in the corner of the shop. He slid it inside, even though it had no destination. Still, something inside him felt lighter.

He stepped outside and looked up. A lone bird sang in the distance, as if welcoming the morning.

A soft breeze brushed his cheek, and for just a moment, he could almost smell the faint scent of ink drifting through the air—blended with the ghost of Yumi’s favorite summer perfume.

He stood there for a while, letting the light grow.

⸻

That night, something that had long been still within Koichi began to move once more. And though the store would close, the words written that night would remain—silent, but eternal.