The Last Letter & The Tree

**The Last Letter**

The old wooden floor creaked under Samuel’s weight as he shuffled toward the attic window, a yellowed envelope clutched in his trembling hands. Outside, the autumn leaves swirled in the wind, painting the town in hues of gold and crimson.

He had found the letter that morning, tucked inside a dusty book of poetry—his late wife’s favorite. The envelope bore his name in her delicate script, the ink faded but still legible after all these years.

With a deep breath, Samuel sat in the worn armchair by the window and carefully unfolded the paper.

*"My dearest Samuel,"* it began, and just like that, her voice filled the silence of the attic.

*"If you’re reading this, then I must have left you far too soon. I hope you’ve been kind to yourself—that you’ve eaten well, taken walks in the sunshine, and maybe even laughed a little, despite missing me."*

Samuel chuckled, his vision blurring. She always knew what to say.

*"I won’t tell you not to grieve, because I know you will. But don’t let it bury you. The world is still beautiful, even if I’m not there to see it with you."*

A tear slipped down his wrinkled cheek. Twenty years without her, and yet her words reached across time, soothing the ache in his chest.

*"Plant a tree for me. Sit under its shade when the sun is high, and know that I love you still."*

Samuel folded the letter gently, pressing it to his heart. The next morning, he bought a sapling—a maple, vibrant and strong—and planted it in their backyard, right where she used to watch the sunrise.

And for the first time in years, he felt her beside him, in the rustling leaves and the warmth of the sun.**The Tree of Memories**

Years passed, and the maple grew tall, its branches stretching toward the sky like open arms. Samuel, now silver-haired and a little more bent with time, made it his ritual to sit beneath it every morning with a cup of coffee, just as the sun crested the horizon.

One chilly October day, as he smoothed his hand over the rough bark, he noticed something peculiar—a small, weathered tin box nestled among the roots, nearly hidden by fallen leaves. His breath caught. He hadn’t put it there.

With careful fingers, he pried it open. Inside lay a collection of tiny notes, each in his wife’s handwriting. Some were quotes from her favorite poems, others simple reminders: *"Don’t forget your scarf in winter,"* or *"The stars are brightest in December."*

But at the very bottom was another sealed envelope, this one marked:

*"For when you need me most."*

Samuel’s pulse quickened. How long had this been here? Had she buried it years ago, knowing he’d find it only when the time was right?

He tore it open gently.

*"My love,"* it read, *"if you’ve found this, then the tree has grown, and so have you—without me, but never alone. I hope you’ve filled your days with stories, kindness, and maybe even a new friend or two. But if loneliness ever grips you too tightly, do this: light a candle, whisper to the wind, and know I’ll answer."*

That evening, as twilight painted the sky in soft purples, Samuel lit a candle on the porch and closed his eyes. A breeze stirred, rustling the maple’s leaves in a melody so familiar it made his heart swell.

And then—faint but unmistakable—he heard it.

Her laughter, dancing on the wind.

From that day on, he never truly felt alone. The tree stood as a testament to love that outlasted time, and Samuel knew: some bonds never fade. They simply change form—like leaves returning to the earth, only to rise again in spring.**The Visitor**

The first frost of winter had just settled over the town when a stranger appeared at Samuel’s gate.

He was a young man, barely out of his teens, with a backpack slung over his shoulder and an uncertain look in his eyes. Samuel watched from the porch as the boy hesitated, then lifted a hand in greeting.

“Mr. Whittaker?” the stranger called. “I’m—I’m Daniel. Clara’s grandson.”

Samuel’s breath hitched. *Clara.* His wife’s name hadn’t been spoken aloud in his presence for years.

Daniel shifted nervously. “She, uh… she told me about you. About this place.” He glanced at the towering maple, its bare branches etched against the gray sky. “She said if I ever needed… well, if I ever felt lost, I should come here.”

Samuel’s throat tightened. He had never known Clara kept in touch with her family after his passing. But then again, she had always been full of quiet, tender surprises.

He stepped forward, the old gate creaking as he opened it. “Come inside,” he said, voice rough. “Tell me everything.”

Over steaming mugs of tea, Daniel spoke—haltingly at first, then with growing warmth. He told Samuel about Clara’s stories, how she had described this very house, the maple tree, the man she had loved. How she had made him promise, before she passed, to visit one day.

“She said you’d understand,” Daniel murmured, staring into his tea. “That you’d know what to say when no one else did.”

Samuel exhaled slowly, looking out the window at the tree. Of course she had planned this. Even now, she was weaving their lives together, stitching the past into the present.

He reached across the table, placing a weathered hand over Daniel’s. “Stay as long as you need,” he said.

And just like that, the house felt less empty.

That night, Samuel lit a candle again. The wind carried his whisper—*“Thank you.”*

Somewhere, he knew Clara was smiling.