The House of Forgotten Letters

Every street had a house people whispered about.

On Maple Lane, that house belonged to an elderly man named Mr. Shakir, a quiet fellow who lived alone in a fading blue house with peeling paint and a porch that creaked like tired bones.

Children said he was strange. Adults said he was sad.

The truth was simpler — he was lonely.

His wife had passed away ten years ago.

His only daughter had moved abroad.

And the house, once filled with laughter, now echoed with silence.

But there was one thing no one knew about him:

Every night, at exactly 11:30, Mr. Shakir wrote a letter.

Not to a person.

Not to a place.

But to the past.

The First Letter

One cold winter night, 14-year-old Nida, who lived next door, forgot her scarf at school and returned late. As she passed by the old blue house, she saw something unexpected:

Through the half-open curtains, Mr. Shakir sat at his desk, surrounded by piles of handwritten letters, writing with fierce concentration.

Curiosity tugged at her.

She quietly stepped closer and noticed that the top of each envelope said:

“To the moments I miss.”

It made her stop breathing for a second.

She didn’t want to intrude, so she walked away quietly, but the image stayed with her.

The Letter That Flew Away

The next evening, a strong wind swept through Maple Lane.

Letters from Mr. Shakir’s open window scattered across the garden.

Nida happened to pass by and saw him kneeling in the cold, searching desperately for the pages.

Without thinking, she rushed to him.

“Let me help.”

He looked startled — no one had offered him help for years.

But something in the girl’s warm eyes reminded him of kindness he once knew.

Together, they gathered letters from under flowerpots, from between fence slats, even from the street.

One envelope, however, landed at Nida’s feet. She picked it up to return it, but before she could, her eyes caught the title:

“To the night she fell asleep in my arms.”

Something inside her tightened.

She handed it back silently.

Mr. Shakir cleared his throat.

“You must think I’m mad.”

Nida shook her head.

“No… I think you must miss her very much.”

It was the first conversation he’d had with someone in weeks.

A Friendship Begins

The next day, Nida knocked on his door holding two cups of hot chocolate.

“I didn’t know how you like tea,” she said.

“So… I brought this instead.”

Mr. Shakir blinked twice, unsure if he was dreaming.

“Come in,” he finally managed.

That evening changed everything.

Nida learned that the letters were memories — stories of his wife, his daughter, his youth, the days when his home wasn’t quiet.

“Writing helps me remember I once lived beautifully,” he said softly.

From that night onward, she began visiting often.

Sometimes she helped him organize old letters.

Sometimes they sat in comfortable silence.

Sometimes he told her stories about the world before she was born.

For the first time in a long time, the house felt alive.

The Day the Letters Stopped

One evening, when Nida came over, Mr. Shakir wasn’t at his desk.

The lamp was off.

The pen was untouched.

Her heart dropped.

She knocked on his bedroom door, and a weak voice answered:

“I’m just tired today.”

She stepped inside.

He lay in bed, pale, breathing softly.

“Do you… need anything?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Can you read me one of the letters?”

Nida hesitated.

She had never read them aloud.

But she nodded and picked an envelope at random.

“To the day she said yes to marrying me.”

As she read, his eyes softened — as though he were watching the memory unfold right before him.

When she finished, he smiled.

“Thank you, child.”

That night, Nida stayed longer, sitting by his side until he fell asleep.

The Last Letter

Two days later, Mr. Shakir didn’t answer the door.

The ambulance came quietly.

Too quietly.

Nida stood outside, trembling, tears slipping down her cheeks.

Later, when she entered the house with his daughter — who had flown in — she saw something on the writing desk.

A single envelope.

Sealed.Her name written on it.

Hands shaking, she opened it.

It read:

“To the girl who reminded me that life can become warm again.”

“You brought back something I thought was lost forever — someone to talk to, someone to smile with, someone to care for.

Thank you for giving an old man company in his final season.”**

Nida pressed the letter to her chest and cried.

A New Beginning

Months passed, but she never forgot him.

She asked his daughter if she could keep the letters.

The daughter agreed — she said her father would have wanted that.

So Nida did something beautiful:

She turned his old house into a small library, where people could read the letters — each one a piece of a life, a heart, a memory.

On the front door, she hung a wooden sign:

“The House of Forgotten Letters — where memories live again.”

Children visited.

Neighbors visited.

Strangers visited.

And the blue house, once silent, now hummed with footsteps, whispers, and warmth.

Nida often sat by the window where she once saw Mr. Shakir writing.

She would smile every time the wind rustled the papers — as if he were still there, writing one more letter.