: The Forgotten Letter

Amira had always loved old things — dusty books, vintage teacups, cracked mirrors that reflected stories more than faces. Her tiny thrift store, tucked between a florist and a bakery on Maple Street, was a haven for forgotten treasures.

One rainy afternoon, while sorting through a box of old postcards and yellowed papers she’d bought at an estate sale, Amira’s fingers brushed against something unusual — a small, sealed envelope, its edges fragile with time. It had no address, only the name: Eleanor.

Curiosity tugged at her. She placed the box aside and held the envelope under the warm light of her desk lamp. Should she open it? It wasn’t hers. But whoever Eleanor was, this letter had never reached her hands. Carefully, she slipped a letter opener through the flap.

Inside was a single sheet of faded paper. The handwriting was elegant, old-fashioned.

"My dearest Eleanor, If you ever read this, know that I waited. I waited by the fountain every Sunday, hoping you’d come. I know your father forbade it, but love doesn’t listen to fathers, does it?

I’m leaving for the war tomorrow. I don’t know if I’ll return, but my heart will always sit by that fountain, waiting for you.

Yours forever,

Thomas"

Amira felt her chest tighten. She read the letter twice, as if hoping the words would change, as if Thomas might appear and explain why the letter never found Eleanor. She wondered who they were, what became of them.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. Rain tapped at her window like gentle knocks from the past. She found herself searching online for any trace of Thomas and Eleanor — the estate sale had been from the old Carter house. Maybe the letter belonged to them?

A few days later, Amira stood before the town’s tiny historical society. An elderly archivist named Mr. Finch welcomed her inside. Together, they pieced together an old love story: Eleanor Carter had lived there during the 1940s. Her father was strict, wealthy, known for his temper. ThomasMiller, a local boy, had enlisted in the army when the war broke out.

“Did he ever come back?” Amira asked.

Mr. Finch sighed. “Thomas died overseas in 1944. Eleanor married someone else — but she visited the old fountain every Sunday until she passed in 1985. Folks thought she liked to read there, but maybe…”

Amira felt the weight of the letter in her pocket. She pictured a young woman sitting by the fountain, waiting for a man who’d promised his heart would stay there. A promise made in ink and never delivered.

Later that evening, Amira walked to the old stone fountain in the town square. She sat on the cold edge, listening to the trickle of water. She imagined Eleanor sitting where she was, clutching a book, glancing up every time footsteps echoed nearby.

She placed the letter on the fountain’s edge, under a small stone to keep it from blowing away. Maybe, in some small way, it would reach Eleanor now — or at least the part of her that still lingered here.

Sometimes, Amira thought, the past never really leaves us. Sometimes, it just waits patiently to be found — like a letter tucked away in a box, like a memory at the bottom of a drawer, like love that never stopped sitting by a fountain, hoping to be remembered.