The Last Letter From the Mountains

The mountains were quiet that morning—too quiet for spring. Usually, the valley would be filled with the laughter of shepherd boys chasing their goats, or the rhythmic sound of women pounding wheat into flour. But on that day, the only sound was the wind sweeping across the peaks, carrying with it a certain heaviness.

Zahir sat outside his small wooden house, holding a piece of folded paper in his hand. His fingers trembled, not because of the cold, but because of the words written on it. It was the last letter from his father, sent from a faraway city where he had gone to work three years ago.

He opened the letter slowly, as if unwrapping a fragile treasure.

"My dear Zahir," it began. "When you read this, I may already be far away from this world. I have fought for years against sickness, but the time has come to rest. Take care of your mother. Be strong, my son. And remember—hope is like the mountains around you: it stands tall even in storms."

Zahir’s eyes burned with tears he didn’t want to shed. His father’s words felt like a stone pressing against his chest. He looked toward the mountains, their snowy peaks glowing under the sunlight, and wondered how something so beautiful could also feel so lonely.

Life in the valley was never easy. The winters were long, and the roads to the nearest town were often blocked for months. Food had to be stored carefully, water fetched from icy streams, and every day was a struggle to survive. But now, without his father’s guidance, Zahir felt the weight of the world pressing down on his young shoulders.

That night, his mother sat beside the fire, staring into the flames. She hadn’t spoken much since the letter arrived. Zahir wanted to tell her it would be okay, but the words felt hollow. Instead, he took his father’s old coat from the wall and stepped outside.

The moon lit the valley with a silver glow. Somewhere in the distance, a lone wolf howled. Zahir tightened the coat around him and walked toward the high ridge overlooking their home. His father used to bring him here, telling stories about courage, kindness, and never losing hope.

When he reached the top, the wind greeted him, cold but alive. He pulled the letter from his pocket and read it again, slowly, letting each word sink into his heart. And then, in a voice just loud enough for the mountains to hear, he spoke.

"I promise, Baba… I’ll take care of her. And I’ll stand like the mountains."

From that night on, Zahir worked harder than ever. He woke before sunrise to tend the goats, fetched firewood from the forest, and traded what little they had with traveling merchants. The valley still felt lonely, but the silence no longer frightened him—it felt like a companion, carrying his father’s words back to him with every gust of wind.

Years later, when the village finally built a small school, Zahir became one of its first teachers. He taught not only reading and writing, but also the lessons his father had given him: about courage, hope, and standing tall in the face of hardship.

And sometimes, when the class was over and the children ran outside, Zahir would walk to the ridge, look at the mountains, and smile. Because he knew his father’s voice was still there—in the wind, in the snow, and in every strong heartbeat that refused to give up.

The last letter had become more than paper and ink.

It had become his compass.