The Last Letter

At the far end of a quiet, crumbling street stood a small, faded house with peeling paint and a rusted iron gate. It wasn’t grand, nor remarkable to anyone passing by — except for one thing: the old woman who sat by its door every evening.

Amma Jaan, as everyone called her, was in her eighties. Her back was slightly hunched, her hands wrinkled and fragile, but her eyes still held a certain sharpness — a light, a spark, a stubborn hope that refused to die. Every evening at 5 o’clock sharp, she would drag out her wooden chair and sit facing the road, a thin, fraying file in her lap. Her gaze remained fixed on the alley, watching, waiting… as if someone she loved deeply might appear around the corner at any moment.

People in the neighborhood knew her story — at least part of it. Her only son, Asad, had left home 25 years ago to find work in the city. He had dreams, big ones. He was young and hopeful, and promised her, “I’ll be back soon, Amma. I’ll write, I’ll call. I’ll take you with me when I settle.”

But he never returned.

No phone call ever came. No letter arrived. No one ever heard of Asad again. Some believed he had died. Others whispered he had abandoned her. But Amma Jaan never accepted any of it.

She believed he would return.

Every Eid, she had a new outfit stitched for him — a soft kurta in his favorite colors. She placed it neatly in the cupboard beside hers, ready for him. Every birthday, she made his favorite dishes: korma, zarda, and a bowl of sweetened rice pudding. She would light a small candle and whisper a prayer under her breath.

But every year, the food remained untouched. The candle melted into silence. And the new outfit stayed folded, untouched.

Still, she waited.

What many didn’t know was that inside that old file she always carried were dozens of letters. Letters she had written to Asad over the years — sometimes twice a month, sometimes just once in a season — pouring her heart onto every page. She never mailed them. Perhaps she didn’t know where he was. Perhaps she believed one day he’d come, and she’d hand them over herself.

One warm summer, a young journalist named Amaan moved into the area. He was new, curious, and fascinated by untold human stories. When he heard whispers about an old woman who had been waiting for her son for over two decades, he was drawn to her instantly.

He visited her one evening with a small box of sweets and a notebook. She greeted him with warmth, her smile gentle, her voice trembling with age but not bitterness.

Over several cups of tea, she shared her story. She talked about Asad’s laughter, how he used to help her in the kitchen, the dreams he had of becoming a writer. She didn’t speak with resentment. There was only love in her voice — and the unshakable belief that he would return.

Before he left, she placed the file in his hands and said, “If you think someone might read this… maybe it’ll reach him.”

Two weeks later, Amaan’s article was published in one of the country’s largest newspapers. It was titled:

“A Mother’s Wait”

It featured her photo — sitting outside her home, eyes staring into the distance, file in hand. The story spoke of the bond between a mother and her lost child, of time, hope, heartbreak, and letters never read.

In a small rented apartment in Delhi, Asad sat sipping tea when his eyes caught the headline. As he read the article, the cup slipped from his hand. His face went pale. His hands trembled.

He had left all those years ago with dreams — but life had other plans. He fell into hardship, lost jobs, and at one point, even ended up homeless for a time. Ashamed of his failures, broken in spirit, he couldn’t bring himself to return. He convinced himself she had moved on… or passed away.

But she hadn’t.

She had waited.

Tears streamed down his face as he packed a small bag and caught the first train home. The journey was long and silent, every mile heavy with regret.

When he reached the old neighborhood, it was past sunset. The streets were quiet. He stood before the familiar iron gate, hand trembling as he pushed it open.

The house looked the same… but too still.

A neighbor appeared from the shadows and paused in shock.

“You’re Asad… aren’t you?”

He nodded slowly.

The neighbor's eyes softened. “She… she passed away three days ago. Peacefully. In her sleep. Even in her last moments, she kept whispering, ‘Asad will come. I know he will.’”

Asad collapsed to his knees.

Inside, the house was untouched. A new kurta, stitched in soft sky blue, still hung in the cupboard. On the bedside table was the file — gently placed there, as if she had known he would walk in and find it.

With trembling hands, he opened it.

Letter after letter, page after page — every word was soaked in love. Some letters were cheerful. Others were filled with longing. A few even scolded him gently. But each one ended the same way:

> “I’ll be waiting for you, Asad…

No matter how long it takes.

— Your Amma”

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From that day on, Asad never left that house again.

He kept it open, clean, and alive. Every Eid, he cooked the same dishes she once did. He donated a kurta to a mother in need. And every child who passed by was offered sweets and stories.

He framed one of her letters and hung it by the door — so no one would forget her wait.

And whenever someone asked him what brought him back after all these years, he would simply say:

“A letter reached me. Not by post. Not by hand. But by love.”

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Because a mother’s love never gets lost. And her last letter… always finds its way home.