The Last Delivery

BY SHAFI ULHAQ

The rain started the moment he turned onto Maple Street, thick drops blurring the windshield and rhythmically drumming against the roof of the van. Eli leaned forward, squinting past the wipers as he pulled up to house number 34—the last delivery on his route.

The box in the back was small, maybe the size of a shoe box, wrapped in plain brown paper and marked with a red “Fragile” sticker. There was no return address, just a typed label: “For Claire.”

Eli checked the name on his clipboard again. Claire Thomas. No apartment number. No phone number. He sighed. These kinds of deliveries always made him uneasy—too many questions for something so final.

He grabbed the package and jogged through the rain to the porch, where he knocked twice. The house was quiet, windows closed, blinds drawn. He knocked again, then rang the bell.

Moments later, the door creaked open. A woman in her mid-thirties stood behind it, pale and expressionless. She looked like someone who had been awake for days but couldn’t remember why.

“Yes?” she asked, voice barely audible.

“I’ve got a delivery for Claire Thomas.”

“I’m Claire.”

Eli hesitated. Something about her posture—frozen, almost bracing—unsettled him. He held out the box.

“It said fragile. Thought I’d hand-deliver.”

Claire took the package slowly, holding it like it might break under the weight of memory. She stared at it, lips trembling slightly.

“Do you know who it’s from?” she asked, eyes never leaving the box.

“No, sorry. No return label. Just your name.”

She nodded, more to herself than to him. “It’s from Jonah.”

Eli didn’t know what to say, but before he could offer a polite goodbye, she turned and walked back inside, leaving the door ajar.

He stood there a moment. Rain soaked his sleeves. Then, against better judgment, he spoke up.

“Sorry—was he… family?”

Claire paused in the hallway and looked back. “He was my fiancé. He died last month.”

Eli’s mouth went dry. “I’m… sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay. He must’ve arranged this before… he was always doing things like that. Preparing. Planning.”

She walked into the living room and sat on a worn-out couch, placing the box on her lap. Eli stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure whether to leave or stay.

“You can come in,” Claire said softly. “I think… I don’t want to open it alone.”

Eli stepped inside and closed the door gently behind him. The house smelled of old books and lavender. A framed photo on the mantle showed Claire and a man with kind eyes and a crooked smile. Jonah.

She carefully peeled back the tape and unfolded the flaps. Inside was a letter, a cassette tape, and a small, fabric-wrapped bundle. Her fingers trembled as she picked up the note.

“Claire,

If you’re reading this, I’m already gone. I hope you know how much I loved you—even now, beyond now. There were things I never got to say out loud, things I couldn’t put into words while I was still trying to fight what was happening to me. So I recorded them. Play the tape when you're ready.

And one last thing—this is the scarf you always wore on our walks. I kept it, selfishly. I want you to have it back, to remember the mornings we walked and didn’t speak, and the quiet way you loved me.

Love always,

Jonah”**

Claire pressed the scarf to her face, breathing in whatever faint scent might have remained. Her shoulders shook, but she didn’t cry. Not yet.

Eli looked around for a moment. “Do you have something to play the tape on?”

Claire smiled faintly through the ache. “Yes. My dad’s old stereo. He taught Jonah how to use it.”

She got up and walked to the cabinet. Moments later, the soft hiss of the cassette filled the silence. Then Jonah’s voice, warm and uncertain, like someone speaking in the dark.

“Hey, Claire. I hope you’re sitting down…”

Eli turned to leave, quietly letting himself out. This moment wasn’t his. But somehow, being part of the delivery felt like a small thread in something much larger—an echo of love passed forward, one package at a time.

Outside, the rain had stopped.