The Last Letter

The war had ended, but its echoes still haunted the fields of Marlowe. Amelia stood at the edge of the broken fence, the chilly wind brushing through her faded scarf. Her eyes searched the hills where soldiers once marched, now silent under grey skies.

It had been a year since the telegram arrived—just six words:

“We regret to inform you...”

She had read them again and again, hoping the message would change. But it never did.

James had left with a promise. “I’ll write you every week,” he said, kissing her forehead. “And when this is over, I’ll come home, and we’ll plant that apple tree you love.” She smiled then, believing him. He always kept his word.

Weeks passed. Then months. His letters came, full of hope and stories of muddy trenches and stolen laughter. But one day, they stopped. Silence replaced the inked pages. And then came the telegram.

Amelia didn’t speak much after that. The villagers said she had changed. She spent most of her days at the post office, staring at the mail slot, as if willing it to deliver just one more letter.

One morning, while dusting the attic, Amelia found something wedged behind the old wardrobe. It was a yellowed envelope, brittle with time. Her name was on it—in James’s handwriting.

Her hands trembled as she opened it.

> My dearest Amelia,

If this reaches you, I’m already gone. I asked my friend Thomas to send it if anything happened to me.

War isn’t what I thought. It’s louder, darker, crueler. But in every moment of fear, I thought of you. You were my quiet in the storm.

I wish I could keep my promise. I wanted that apple tree, the porch, the old rocking chair. But if I don’t come home, please don’t live in the silence. Speak. Laugh. Dance. Live.

Plant that tree for me. Watch it grow.

With all my love,

James

Tears blurred the words. The room felt warmer somehow, like he had just whispered those words into her ear.

The next morning, the villagers saw Amelia walking to the field with a small shovel and a young apple sapling. She dug quietly, carefully, her hands steady, her heart no longer hollow.

Years passed.

Children played under the shade of the tree. Elders rested beneath its leaves. And every spring, white blossoms bloomed like snowflakes—soft, silent reminders of promises made and kept.

Amelia never married. She lived alone, but never lonely. She told stories of James to anyone who would listen—how he whistled while fixing the roof, how he once tried to bake a pie and nearly set the kitchen on fire.

The apple tree grew strong, its roots deep like the love they once shared.

One autumn evening, many years later, Amelia sat under the tree, a letter in her lap. Her hands, now wrinkled, held it gently. It was James’s last letter—the one that had saved her.

Closing her eyes, she whispered, “I kept my promise, love. I planted the tree. I lived.”

And as the wind stirred the leaves, it almost sounded like a voice saying, “Thank you.”