The Last Letter
A Daughter’s Quest for Truth and the Secrets Buried Beneath the Surface
The sky appeared to merge into the sea this evening, such that it was twilight and silence perfectly blended. The old, moldy letter was unfolded slowly by Emily, her fingers shaking since she had discovered it in the attic. It was addressed to her, but she had never seen it before.
There was no doubt about the cursive writing – it belonged to her father. He died ten years ago leaving behind more questions than answers.
As she took a deeper breath, it felt like taking in his perfume; and suddenly past childhood memories came rushing back into her mind. The man never talked much but when he did his words had substance.
Dear Emily” began the letter “If you are reading this, it means that I am not there anymore to guide you. But there is something I need to tell you which I could not bring myself to say when I used to be alive.
Her heartbeat increased as she went on with reading. The letter revealed hidden history about him; my dad’s life before becoming a father figure for me. What he had done was so dangerous that we were all at risk without me knowing anything at any time.
"You see, during the war I was in a covert operation,' the letter continued. "One that became a disaster. There are people at large, my dear Emily, who might come looking for you because of my doings."
Emily’s thoughts raced. Was this for real? Had she not known all this time that her father was involved in dark dangerous affairs? And if yes, then why did it take so long to find out?
The letter went on to describe a series of events, coded messages, and a hidden key to a safety deposit box that held the answers she needed. The key was hidden in the old oak tree in their backyard where they planted when she was little.
Elizabeth hands trembled as she finished reading the letter. She felt like she was standing at the edge of a precipice looking down into an undefined abyss. She had a decision to make – leave everything as it is or uncover grave secrets from her dad’s lifetime.
She knew what she had to do.
That night under cover of darkness, Emily dug at the base of the oak tree with her bare hands. Her heart thumped in excitement when her spade struck something solid. It was then that she pulled out a small metal box, which over time became rusty due to being buried there for too long.
Inside was the key just like father had said and also an address written on a slip of paper. Time had come for Emily to discover truth no matter how much it could harm her.
Her mind swirled with fear and determination as she packed her bags for the journey ahead. Her father had warned her about some people who may still be lurking around, but she was no more a little girl needing any protection. She was about to confront anything that would come her way.
The last line of the letter rang in her mind: “Trust no one, not even yourself. But remember, you are stronger than you think.”
Thank You Note : My gratitude goes out to you for sparing a moment of your time in reading this tale! I hope that it held you spellbound. To me your assistance and responses are everything; therefore, I look forward to narrating other exciting stories soon. Await further escapades!
About the Creator
Lina Khan
"Indeed, with hardship comes ease." — Qur'an 94:6
Discover stories that inspire, reflecting the strength and beauty found in overcoming life's challenges.
Rage
Content Warning: Domestic Violence, Assault Rage D. A. Ratliff “Who did this?” My voice echoed through the house. All I wanted was a cup of tea, but one of the twins, running through the house like maniacs, knocked it over. My nerves tingled, and every muscle in my body felt coiled like a spring. Survival seemed out of reach.
By D. A. Ratliff5 days ago in Fiction
Until You Understand
You wake somewhere new. No memory of the night before. Light arrives from no visible source and refuses to cast shadows. The walls are pale, unmarked, faintly warm. The room has edges but no corners. Sound travels too cleanly. There is a door behind you. You know this without turning. You turn. The door is sealed. No handle. No seam. Only a rectangle slightly darker than the wall around it. A clock without hands is mounted at eye level. It ticks anyway. In the center of the room is a board set into the floor. Black and white squares. Perfectly even. A chessboard large enough to stand on. There is a desk made of glass along the far wall. On it rests a single sheet of paper. It wants a signature. You do not touch it. A tone sounds. It is calm. The board hums. Pieces rise from the floor. They do not slide into place. They emerge as if the room exhales them. Pawns first. Then rooks. Knights. Bishops. The King. The Queen. They arrange themselves. The tone sounds again. You understand without being told: it is your turn. You hesitate. The clock ticks louder. A sign fades into the wall beside the board. Stand here. Wait your turn. You step onto a white square. The room stills. A pawn moves on its own. The tone sounds. You are expected to respond. You choose a pawn. It is close. It seems harmless. You move it forward one square. The tone stops. The board hums. Nothing else happens. You wait. Another pawn advances. The tone sounds. You move again. The rhythm establishes itself. Tone. Move. Silence. You begin to anticipate. You think one move ahead. Then two. The board allows this. It does not resist. It simply answers. A bishop disappears. Not taken. Gone. You do not notice. Two turns later, a square darkens. The light narrows. The room feels smaller by a margin you cannot measure. You do not connect this to the bishop. The clock ticks. You keep playing. A knight vanishes. The hum deepens. The air grows denser. You adjust. You protect your King. You sacrifice a pawn. You gain space. The Queen is gone. You do not miss it yet. You will later. The board continues. You begin to understand the tones. One is for urgency. One is for error. One is for delay. You learn when to breathe. You learn when to wait. A rook disappears. The wall behind you warms. You turn. The door remains sealed. You play faster. You try to win. The board does not reward this. Three moves later, a row of squares becomes inert. You step onto one by habit. Your foot does not lift. The board holds you in place until the tone releases you. You stop rushing. You begin to watch. You notice that when a piece vanishes, the room changes later. Never immediately. Always delayed. Always proportional. You begin to count. One piece lost: light shifts. Two pieces lost: sound tightens. Three pieces lost: space contracts. The board is not punishing you. It is teaching you scale. You test it. You sacrifice a pawn. Nothing happens. You sacrifice another. The clock ticks louder. You sacrifice a third. The ceiling lowers by a breath. You recover a piece. The ceiling halts. You stop thinking about winning. You start thinking about cost. The board does not care about victory. It cares about consequence. A piece you save now will matter later. A move you make now will close a door you cannot yet see. You play more slowly. You let a knight fall because you understand what it will buy you. The room warms. The ticking softens. You learn that every square is a future. You learn that speed is not control. You learn that reaction is not choice. The tone sounds. You wait. Not because you are told. Because you see the board. You see the path your hand almost took. You see what it would have cost. You choose differently. The room exhales. The clock grows quiet. The door does not open. You are not finished. You make a move you have already lost. You see it this time. You do not take it. The board waits. The room waits. The tone does not sound. You move anyway. Not to escape. Not to win. To accept that every square you touch becomes the world that follows. The door unlocks without a sound.
By Tifani Power 5 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.