“A Letter to the Unseen”

A Letter to the Unseen

By [Ali Rehman]

Messages we send to those who left without saying goodbye.

The night rain whispered against the window, soft and tired, the way memories sound when they return after years of silence. Daniel sat at his old wooden desk, fingers hovering above a blank sheet of paper. He had written hundreds of letters in his life—business emails, birthday notes, apologies, invitations—but never one like this.

This one wasn’t meant for the living.

It had been three years since his father passed away. Three years since the phone call that came too late. Three years of unspoken words, unasked questions, unfinished conversations. Grief had a strange way of settling into the corners of a home—quiet, patient, always waiting. Daniel thought he had outrun it. But on this particular night, it came back, softly knocking on the door of his heart.

He took a breath, dipped his pen into the ink, and began to write.

Dear Dad,

I don’t know where you are now, or if letters like this ever reach the place you’ve gone. But tonight, I need to believe that words can travel farther than footsteps, deeper than memory.

The pen trembled slightly. Daniel wasn’t sure if it was his hand or the weight of the sentences forming inside him.

I’m writing because I never said goodbye. I didn’t get the chance. I didn’t know our last conversation would be our last conversation. I thought we had more time. I thought I could call tomorrow, visit next week, apologize later.

He paused. The room felt smaller now, filled with echoes he had tried not to hear.

His father had been a quiet man, the kind whose emotions lived behind locked doors. Growing up, Daniel often mistook silence for distance. Only after becoming an adult did he realize silence is sometimes the language of the unsaid—words too heavy or too fragile to speak aloud.

He continued.

I want to tell you something I never said: I wasn’t angry with you. I was afraid. Afraid I didn’t make you proud. Afraid you didn’t see me. Afraid I would fail and you would be disappointed.

But now I understand—you were afraid too. Afraid of showing weakness. Afraid of breaking the walls you spent your whole life building.

A tear rolled down his face, landing on the page and slightly blurring the ink. He didn’t bother wiping it away.

When you left, I felt like someone had ripped a story from my hands just before the ending. I kept flipping back through old chapters hoping for a hint, a clue, anything that would explain why you and I never learned how to talk the way we wanted.

The rain outside grew louder, as if the sky itself was listening.

Daniel leaned back and let the memories wash over him. He remembered the fishing trips where they sat for hours without speaking, the silent car rides, the rare smile his father gave when proud but unable to say the words aloud. They were like two mirrors facing each other—reflecting the same fears but never meeting in the middle.

He returned to the letter.

Dad, I want to thank you. Not for being perfect—you weren’t. Neither was I. But thank you for trying in the ways you knew how. Thank you for fixing things around the house without being asked, for working late so we could have more than you did, for standing in the doorway during my piano recitals because you were too nervous to sit in the front row.

Thank you for loving me in silence.

The page was almost full now, but the heaviness in his chest felt lighter than when he began.

I’m learning to forgive you. And I hope, wherever you are, you’ve forgiven me too. I hope you know that I think of you more gently now, not with the sharpness of regret but with the softness of understanding.

Daniel signed the letter: Your son, Daniel.

He folded the paper slowly, as though closing a wound. He didn’t know what to do with it at first. Burn it? Keep it? Send it into the world somehow?

Finally, he opened the window and let the cool night breeze sweep into the room. He held the letter for a moment longer, then released it. The wind caught it and carried it upward, disappearing into the darkness.

It didn’t matter where it landed. Its destination had never been a place.

It was a release.

It was a goodbye.

And for the first time in years, Daniel felt the quiet inside him settle—not like grief, but like peace.

Moral:

Sometimes the goodbyes we never got are the ones we must write ourselves. Healing begins when we speak the words our hearts have carried for too long.