“The Last Letter from Apartment 6B”

The Last Letter from Apartment 6B

Harold was the kind of mailman who counted steps and memorized faces. Not because he had to, but because he liked the routine of it—liked knowing that Mrs. Yates in 3A always ordered gardening catalogs, or that the young couple in 2D still hadn’t changed their names after the wedding.

He'd walked the blocks of Wrenhurst Terrace for nearly thirty years. The buildings there were quiet, most of them still owned by families who had inherited them, unchanged except for the vines that crawled a little higher each season. But 6B at 244 Wrenhurst was different.

There wasn’t supposed to be a 6B anymore.

The fire had gutted the top floor of that building on a stormy November night in 2005. Harold had seen the smoke rise from his living room window, coffee cooling in his hand. The next morning, he delivered no mail to the sixth floor. That was twenty years ago.

But one overcast Tuesday in July, a pale blue envelope sat quietly in his bag.

Neat, looping cursive. No return address.

To Mr. Harold Finch, Route 32

Delivered with care, please. It gets lonely up here.

He paused on the stoop of 244 Wrenhurst, eyeing the envelope. It wasn’t unusual for old buildings to have mail misaddressed, especially if the system hadn’t updated floor plans. But this was different. It had his name on it.

Against instinct, Harold slipped it into his pocket and continued his rounds.

That night, under the soft hum of his kitchen light, Harold opened the envelope.

Dear Mr. Finch,

I know I shouldn’t write, but I hear your steps in the hall sometimes. You walk slowly, like my father did, counting stairs with each footfall. It’s comforting.

I was once Clara in 6B. I liked yellow curtains and buttered toast and rainy afternoons. I don’t remember much else lately. The light flickers more often, and the clocks don’t run right here.

Do you remember me? I remember you.

Yours,

Clara

Harold re-read the letter five times. It wasn’t typed—written in fine pen ink, the paper softly scented like lavender. A prank, he told himself. Maybe one of the tenants with too much time or a flair for theater.

But still—"Do you remember me?"

The next week, another letter.

Then another.

Clara began to write about the weather, how it never changed in her part of the building. She described sounds that didn’t echo anymore, and shadows that stretched in the wrong direction. She said she missed toast.

Harold asked around. Quietly.

244 Wrenhurst was now five floors tall. The top had never been rebuilt. The old residents had moved out or passed on. No one remembered Clara.

He visited city records.

No death certificate. No fire investigation report.

Only a single line in an archived building inspection form: “6B – Entry sealed following incident. No access granted.”

The fourth letter arrived on a Thursday. It was darker.

Dear Mr. Finch,

There’s something in the hallway now. It doesn’t walk like you do. It taps, slow at first, then faster, like it’s learning my rhythms. I stay in the corner now. I don’t sleep.

But your footsteps are still safe. Yours are the only ones that remind me time is passing at all.

I think it wants me to stop writing. But I wanted to thank you. Before it gets in.

Yours always,

Clara

Harold didn’t sleep that night. He kept the envelope under his pillow. The next morning, he did something he hadn’t done in twenty years.

He climbed the stairs of 244 Wrenhurst to the sixth floor.

There was no 6B.

Just a blackened, sealed door, half-covered in soot, with an iron lock that looked too new. The number plate hung at an angle, rusted but barely visible: 6B.

He touched the handle. It was cold—unnaturally cold.

And on the floor, tucked neatly beneath the doorframe, sat one last envelope.

Pale blue. Lavender-scented.

Mr. Finch,

It got in.

Please don’t stop walking.

I need to hear you.

Harold never told anyone about the letters.

But every morning now, before starting his route, he walks the sixth-floor hallway of 244 Wrenhurst.

Step by step, slowly, evenly. Counting.

Just in case she’s listening.