THE LAST LETTER

The solar dipped at the back of the horizon, casting lengthy golden shadows throughout the porch wherein antique Mr. Rahman sat in his creaking rocking chair. A small stack of yellowed envelopes lay on his lap, their corners curled with age. One envelope, however, stood apart—its paper crisp, untouched via way of means of time. The ultimate letter.

He stared at it for what appeared like forever. For years, he had written letters to his overdue wife, Shirin, each month because she passed. It became the best manner he knew the way to cope. He by no means mailed them, simply stored them in a wood field below their bed. All besides this one. This one became different.

Inside the house, the entirety remained simply as Shirin had left it: her scarf nevertheless held on the coat rack, the faint heady fragrance of her rosewater fragrance lingered withinside the air, and her favored tea cup sat at the kitchen shelf—untouched. Mr. Rahman believed that if he moved anything, even an inch, she may disappear forever.

The letter in his hand trembled slightly. He took a deep breath and opened it.

My dearest Shirin,
This might be my ultimate letter. I assume you will apprehend why.

His penmanship became steadier than he remembered.

I am tired. Not simply of the aches and creaks in my bones, however of the silence. Of talking into the void and pretending you pay attention me. I understand I`ve written to you each month, every so often greater whilst the times grew lengthy and lonely. But today, I write now no longer to fill the silence, however to sooner or later receive it.

He paused, wiping his eyes with the lower back of his hand. The reminiscence of her laughter drifted via his thoughts like a melody carried at the breeze.

I nevertheless recollect the way you used to hum whilst watering the plants. You didn`t understand I became listening, however I constantly did. And I nevertheless water them the manner you liked. But they don`t bloom like they used to. Maybe they leave out you too.

He chuckled quietly.

Do you recollect the jasmine tree you planted close to the gate? It`s nevertheless there. It doesnt flower a great deal anymore, however as soon as in a whilst, whilst the wind is simply right, I seize a whiff of it and I swear I pay attention your footsteps.
Words now flowed like a river that had broken a dam.

Everyone says I should continue. They say time heals all wounds. But I think they misunderstand the meaning of loving someone for the rest of their lives. I will never forget it. You learn to carry your memories gently, like a fragile tea. And I did it, Shirin. for a long time.

His fingers were pulled against the edge of the paper.

But I think it was time for me to join you. I'm not afraid - I'm not. I have been reconciled with this world. We saw how our children grew up and our grandchildren laughed. I told all of their stories how they olded me because they left my socks everywhere and how they had the best treatment in the neighborhood.

He slowly gained a deep air.

I'll bring your scarf when I come. I know how cold you get at night. And I will bring your letter with me. So you know you weren't alone, you weren't alone.

As he approached the end of the letter, he stalled and stalled.

Wait for me under the jasmine tree. I recognize you through your smile.

Forever,
Rahman.

He folded the letters together slowly and carefully, as if you could fold a flag or prayer. He then thrusts it into an envelope and seals it. He didn't put it under the bed like everyone else. Instead, he gently pressed it against his chest and closed his eyes.

Night creeped up quietly, as if not intrusive. A quiet silence settled under the house. Outside, the wind roared through the old jasmine leaves, and for a while the smell of flowers filled the air.
In the morning, the nurse found him in a rocking chair. The letter was still in his hands.

And not too far from the flowering jasmine tree, two petals - very easily - fell carefully.