Letters Never Sent

The old wooden box had always been there — tucked away at the back of Nadia’s closet, beneath stacks of clothes and forgotten memories.

It wasn’t locked, yet she hadn’t opened it in years.

Not because she forgot what was inside, but because she remembered too well.

Inside were letters — dozens of them.

All written in her neat, careful handwriting.

All addressed to one person.

“Dear Abbu…”

Some letters were short, written on hurried days when her heart was heavy but time was short.

Others were long, pages filled with stories she never told, words she never had the courage to say.

And though her father had been gone for nearly seven years, she never stopped writing to him.

Her father, Ahmed, had been a man of few words — disciplined, dignified, and impossibly firm.

He loved her, but never said it.

She respected him, but rarely showed it.

They were alike in all the difficult ways — proud, strong-willed, quietly emotional.

When she was a teenager, their arguments were constant.

About studies, friends, her choices, her independence.

He wanted her to be careful; she wanted to be free.

But one evening — she could still remember it vividly — their voices rose louder than ever before.

He had told her she was reckless, ungrateful.

She had shouted that he didn’t understand her, that she wished he’d stop controlling her life.

He went silent.

She stormed out.

And that was the last conversation they ever had.

He passed away a few months later — suddenly, quietly, without a goodbye.

No warning.

No chance to make it right.

At the funeral, surrounded by relatives and condolences, Nadia couldn’t cry.

Her tears froze behind her guilt.

Every “I’m sorry for your loss” only reminded her of what she never said.

The days turned into months.

The house grew quieter.

And one evening, as she cleaned his old desk, she found his fountain pen — the one he always used for his notes.

Something inside her broke.

That night, she wrote her first letter.

“Abbu, I don’t know if you can hear me.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean those words.

I just wanted you to see me — not as a child, but as someone trying to find her way.”

She folded the letter carefully and placed it in a small wooden box.

And she kept writing — one letter after another.

Birthdays, Eid, anniversaries, ordinary days.

Whenever her heart ached, she wrote.

It became her way of speaking to him — the only way left.

Years passed.

Nadia built her life slowly, quietly.

She became a teacher, moved into a small apartment, and filled it with plants and books — the kind of peace she once thought she’d never have.

Yet, even in the calmest of days, there was a hollow space inside her heart — shaped like her father’s silence.

Every time she saw an old man crossing the street, or someone reading a newspaper at a tea stall, she felt a sting of memory.

She would smile politely — and then spend the rest of the day holding back tears.

One evening, while cleaning her closet, her hand brushed against that old box again.

It was covered in dust.

She hesitated before opening it.

The scent of old paper rose — faint, warm, familiar.

Each letter was dated neatly, some ink smudged with tears.

She sat on the floor and began to read.

“Abbu, I got the job today. I wish you could see how proud I felt.”

“Abbu, I tried to make your biryani recipe. It didn’t taste like yours.”

“Abbu, I dreamt of you last night. You were smiling.”

By the fifth letter, she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

The tears came quietly, without warning — not the painful kind, but the cleansing kind.

As she wept, she realized something.

These letters were never just for him.

They were for her too — the version of herself that needed to forgive, to let go, to make peace.

The next morning, Nadia decided to visit her old neighborhood — the place where she grew up.

The streets looked smaller, the houses older, yet somehow, everything felt familiar.

She walked past the bakery where her father used to buy her almond biscuits, past the small mosque he visited at dawn, until she reached the park by the river.

And there it was — the bench under the neem tree.

Faded, cracked, and yet still standing.

The same bench where her father used to sit every evening with his newspaper, sipping tea, waving to neighbors.

She sat down slowly, running her fingers over the wood.

The air was cool, the river soft and steady.

She placed the box of letters beside her.

For a long time, she said nothing.

Then she began to whisper.

“Abbu… I kept writing to you. Every time I missed you. Every time I felt lost.”

Her voice trembled.

“I used to think peace would come if I could just say sorry to your face. But now I know… peace comes when the heart stops arguing with the past.”

The wind moved gently through the leaves, as if listening.

A bird chirped somewhere in the distance.

She closed her eyes.

And for a brief, delicate moment, she felt something —

Not the weight of loss, but the presence of love.

As if he was sitting beside her again.

Not speaking.

Just listening, the way he used to when she was a child.

The sun began to set, painting the river gold.

Nadia opened the box and pulled out the first letter she ever wrote — the one stained with tears.

She read it one last time.

Then she stood up, walked to the edge of the river, and let it go.

The paper floated gently, spinning with the current, then disappeared into the horizon.

She whispered,

“Goodbye, Abbu. And thank you.”

The air felt lighter.

The silence around her, softer.

As if the river itself carried her words to a place where they were finally heard.

That night, back home, Nadia sat by her window with a cup of tea — the way her father used to.

She didn’t write a new letter.

For the first time in seven years, she didn’t feel the need to.

Instead, she opened her diary and wrote just one line:

“I think I’m finally at peace.”

In the weeks that followed, she visited the river often.

Sometimes she brought flowers, sometimes just sat and watched the water move.

She began smiling more at her students, calling old friends, visiting her mother more often.

And one day, while teaching, she told her class —

“Peace doesn’t always come when you fix everything.

Sometimes, it comes when you learn to forgive what can’t be fixed.”

Her voice didn’t shake when she said it.

It felt like truth — lived, learned, and finally accepted.

Months later, on a rainy afternoon, she received a small parcel from her cousin.

Inside was her father’s old fountain pen — restored, polished, gleaming.

There was a note attached:

“He left this in his drawer for you. Said one day you’d know what to write with it.”

Nadia smiled through her tears.

She placed the pen on her desk, opened a new page in her diary, and began to write — not a letter of grief this time, but one of gratitude.

“Dear Abbu,

Thank you for teaching me strength, even through silence.

Thank you for loving me in your own quiet way.

I finally understand.

And I’m okay now.”

When she finished, she didn’t fold it or hide it.

She left it open — like her heart finally was.

The rain tapped softly against the window, steady and peaceful.

Somewhere, in that rhythm, she felt her father’s calm presence again — not as a memory, but as peace itself.