The Last Letter

The Last Letter
In a quiet village tucked between fields of sunflowers and dusty roads, lived an old man named Raman. His house was small, with peeling paint and creaky doors, but his garden bloomed like a secret the world had forgotten. Everyone in the village knew him—the kind man with sad eyes who always sat on his porch at sunset, holding a faded envelope in his hand.

No one knew what was in the envelope. But he held it like it was the most precious thing in the world.

Years ago, Raman had been different. Young, strong, and full of dreams, he was a carpenter who built houses with his bare hands. He had laughter in his voice and mischief in his smile. And beside him was Meera—his wife, his childhood friend, his everything.

Meera had hair like the night sky and a laugh that could stop storms. They married under a banyan tree, with nothing but garlands of jasmine and hearts full of hope. Life was simple—two plates on a wooden table, morning tea in clay cups, and stories shared under moonlight.

But life, as it does, changed.

One winter, Meera fell sick. At first, it was just a cough. Then fever. Then weakness that wouldn't go away. The village doctor came and went, offering medicines that didn’t help. Raman stopped working. He sat beside her day and night, feeding her with trembling hands, whispering prayers he hadn’t said in years.

She held on for weeks. And then, one morning, just as the sun rose over the wheat fields, she let go.

Raman didn’t cry. Not that day. Not the next. Not even at her funeral. But something inside him shattered—a silence that spoke louder than tears.

Days turned into months. People came and went. But Raman stayed still.

Until one day, a letter arrived.

It had Meera’s handwriting on it. The postman, confused, gave it to Raman without a word.

It read:

My dearest Raman,

If you’re reading this, it means I’ve gone before you. I didn’t want to leave, but I knew I might. So I wrote this letter while I still had the strength.

You always said I was stronger, but I disagree. You have the strength of the earth—you carry things silently, without breaking. But don’t carry my absence like a burden. Live. Smile. Eat your favorite sweets again. Fix the old swing in the garden. Talk to the neighbors. Tell your stories.

And when you miss me—which you will—come sit in our garden. I promise, I’ll be there with the breeze, with the sunlight, with every jasmine bloom.

Love always,
Meera

Raman read that letter a hundred times. Maybe more. Each time, something inside him softened.

He planted more flowers. He opened his door to village children who wanted to learn carpentry. He began telling stories—of how Meera once danced in the rain, how she burned the rice the first week of marriage, how she laughed at her own jokes.

But every evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills, he sat on his porch, holding that same letter.

He never remarried. He didn’t want to.

One night, a young boy from the village, curious and bold, asked him, “Uncle, do you still miss her?”

Raman smiled, a smile that carried both sorrow and sweetness.

“Every day,” he said. “But I don’t miss her with pain anymore. I miss her like a favorite song. You know it by heart. It’s not playing, but it’s always with you.”

The boy didn’t quite understand, but he nodded anyway.

Years passed.

One morning, the neighbors noticed Raman hadn’t come out for his tea.

They found him on his porch, eyes closed, the letter resting gently in his lap, jasmine flowers scattered around his feet by the wind.

Author’s Note:
Love doesn’t always need monuments or grand gestures. Sometimes, it lives quietly—in a garden, in a letter, in an old man’s porch.