The Last Letter

The Last Letter

In one of the busy alleys of Dhaka, there was a small post office. It was run by Rafique Bhai, a man in his sixties, with a calm and peaceful face that seemed untouched by the rush of the world. Every morning at 9 a.m., he would quietly sit at his desk, sort the letters, and wait for the rare visitors who still believed in the magic of written words.

These days, letters were rare. Everyone was on mobile phones, sending emails or chatting on WhatsApp. But still, a few old souls held on to their habit of writing letters. Rafique Bhai seemed to be waiting just for them.

One quiet afternoon, when there were no customers around, a young woman walked in. She looked about twenty-two, holding a slightly crumpled envelope in her hand, eyes full of restlessness.

“Can I still send a letter from here?” she asked.

Rafique Bhai smiled gently. “Yes, you can. Who’s it for?”

She hesitated. “It’s for my father. But… he’s no longer in this world.”

Rafique Bhai paused, unsure how to respond. “Then... how will you send it?”

The girl slowly pulled out a folded piece of paper from the envelope and handed it to him. On it was written:

> Dear Abbu,

You left so suddenly. I was preparing for my board exams then. I couldn’t even say goodbye.

I miss your voice, your tea, your stories… everything.

I know you’ll never read this, but still, I wanted to say—I love you. I love you so much.

— Your daughter, Tania

Rafique Bhai stared at the letter for a long time. Then he looked up and said softly,

“I’ll keep this letter. Many letters come and go every day, but a few stay behind—in the heart. Yours will stay there. And who knows, maybe a postman from the skies will deliver it to your father.”

Tania’s eyes welled up with tears. “Thank you, uncle. You don’t know how much your words mean to me.”

She left quietly. Rafique Bhai sat still, holding the letter close to his heart.

That night, he opened an old trunk at home. It was full of old letters—his wife’s, his children’s, his parents’. Letters no one reads anymore. But to him, they were treasures.

The next day, he opened a fresh notebook. At the top, he wrote:

“The Last Letters – Sent to the Heart’s Address.”

Every day from then on, whenever someone came with a letter for someone they had lost, he carefully copied it into the notebook. Over time, it became a collection of raw, untouched emotions.

There were letters from broken lovers, from parents to children who had passed, from siblings separated by fate. Each letter carried a story.

One day, a little boy named Shuvo came to the post office with a letter in his tiny hands.

“Uncle,” he said, “I wrote this to my mom. She’s in the sky now. Can you send it to her?”

It was a simple note, in uneven handwriting:

> Mom,

I’m okay. But I can’t sleep without your stories.

Dad cries sometimes, but secretly. Will you come back soon?

I prayed for you.

— Shuvo

Rafique Bhai took the letter with trembling hands. He hugged Shuvo gently and said, “Your mom will definitely read this.”

Days turned into months. The notebook turned into five thick volumes. A local journalist one day stumbled upon this unique post office and wrote an article:

“The Postman Who Delivers Letters to Heaven.”

Soon, people began coming from distant places. Some wrote to their lost children, some to old lovers, some even to their future selves. And Rafique Bhai became more than just a postmaster—he became a silent bridge between hearts and memories.

One day, he wrote a letter of his own. The envelope read:

"To Ruby"—his wife who had passed away many years ago.

> Ruby,

I still look for your tea.

I still want to hear your voice before I sleep.

A girl’s letter reminded me again—true love never dies.

I’ll be there soon, maybe a little late.

Wait for me.

— Rafique

That was his last letter. Not for the world—but for his own heart.