A Love Letter Found in a 100-Year-Old Book

It all started on a rainy afternoon at Pine Street Bookshop. I wasn’t supposed to be there. I had errands to run, emails to answer, and a dozen things piling up. But the rain came down in sheets, and the cozy glow of the little shop was too inviting to ignore.

I wandered aimlessly through the aisles, the faint scent of old paper and wood filling the air. My fingers skimmed the spines of books until one caught my eye: “Whispers of the Meadow” by Amelia Hart, its edges frayed and the cover faded to a dull green.

I pulled it off the shelf, intending only to admire the craftsmanship of the past. But when I flipped it open, a folded piece of paper fluttered to the ground.

Curiosity got the best of me. I picked it up carefully, the edges yellowed and fragile. The handwriting was elegant, the kind you don’t see anymore—slanted letters, perfectly spaced.

And it began:

__________________________________________

My Dearest Lila,

I don’t know if you will ever read this. Maybe it’s better that way. But if you do, I want you to know this: you were my first thought in the morning and my last thought at night.

They say a man’s heart should belong to his duty, and for a time, I tried. But no uniform, no medal, no grand speech from a commander could ever mean as much to me as the sound of your laugh.

Do you remember that day by the river? The sun was so warm, and you dared me to swim across. I’ve faced storms at sea that were less terrifying than your teasing smile when I hesitated.

Now, as I sit here in this camp, surrounded by silence and the distant hum of war, I think only of you.

If I return, Lila, I promise to carry your favorite daisies to the front porch every spring. I promise to laugh at your silly jokes, even when they’re not funny. I promise to love you with every breath I have left.

But if I don’t... know that you were my greatest joy, my truest love, and the only part of this life I’d ever want to relive.

Forever yours,

Henry

__________________________________________

I read the letter three times before it fully sank in. The rain outside was forgotten, as were my errands. Henry’s words felt alive, even though they were over a hundred years old.

Who was Lila? Did she ever read the letter? Did Henry come back from the war?

I slipped the letter back into the book and brought it to the counter. The shopkeeper, a kind old man with a knowing smile, looked at me.

“Finding something special in there?” he asked, tapping the cover.

“More than I expected,” I said, sliding the book closer.

As I left the shop, the rain had stopped, but Henry’s words stayed with me. That night, I started searching online, digging through archives for any mention of Henry or Lila.

I never found out what happened to them, but part of me didn’t mind. It felt like their love story belonged to them—and now, just a little bit, to me.