The Last Letter in the Mango Orchard

As dusk settled, the air in the mango orchard thickened, the scent almost syrupy with sweetness. Aleena took her usual shortcut through the orchard after her shift at the post office, clutching the day’s unsent letters. The trees formed a tunnel of shadows and golden light, cicadas droning above. This shortcut was a habit from her childhood, and tonight, with her mind weighed by unspoken words and yellowed paper, she walked slower, as if the orchard might answer questions she wasn’t ready to ask.

Midway through, at a weathered iron bench, she noticed an old man seated, his head bowed, hands resting atop a walking stick. She paused, reluctant to disturb the silence. But the man looked up.

“You’re Mrs. Siddiqi’s granddaughter,” he said, voice rough like dry leaves.

Aleena nodded. “And you’re Mr. Latif, the orchard’s keeper.” She remembered him from village stories—how he’d tended these trees for decades, how children feared his temper but admired his mangoes.

He nodded toward the bundle of letters. “Still handling secrets, I see.”

She blinked at the accuracy. “Sometimes the letters I sort feel heavier than parcels,” she replied, taking a cautious seat.

He smiled, displaying teeth stained by betel nut. “Letters carry more than words. Sometimes they bear the weight of forgiveness.”

Aleena wondered at that, then removed a particular envelope—cream-colored, yellowed at the edge, unaddressed. “I found this in the old sorting chest. No name, just the orchard’s signet.” She traced a faint mango carved onto the wax seal.

Mr. Latif’s eyes widened before he pocketed the surprise. “Your grandmother wrote it. Long ago. She never sent it.”

Aleena shook her head. “Did you know her well?”

He was silent, then nodded. “Better than most.”

Beneath the gold-dusted leaves, stories seemed easier to tell. And Mr. Latif spoke.

“We grew up together. This orchard was our childhood. But time and pride…they break the strongest bonds. Your grandmother wanted to leave for the city, chase dreams beyond mango trees. I—I begged her to stay.” His knuckles whitened on the walking stick. “I wrote her cruel things, thinking it would anchor her here. Instead, it drove her further.”

Aleena listened, the orchard suddenly transformed, every branch holding old grievances and forgotten joys. “My grandmother never spoke of you,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“She forgave me, but I never forgave myself.” Mr. Latif looked to the sky, where the first stars blinked through tangled leaves. “I found her letter in the hollow of that tree.” He pointed to a gnarled trunk nearby. “She left it for me before she left the village. It was a confession, and a request for forgiveness. I never replied. Pride again.”

Aleena studied the letter in her lap. “What stopped you from reading it fully?”

“Fear—of regret, of truths I wasn’t ready to face.” He laughed softly. “But when you brought it just now, I knew it was time.”

Something urgent bloomed in Aleena’s chest. “Would you like me to read it to you?” she offered.

He nodded, with a gratitude that was almost reverence. She broke the seal.

“My dearest childhood friend,” she began, voice trembling but growing steadier, “If this orchard remembers laughter, it remembers ours. If branches recall anger, they recall mine most of all. I forgive you for your words, as I hope you’ll forgive me for leaving. If you ever read this, remember we were more than anger or regret. We were joy, once.”

The cicadas quieted as Aleena finished. Mr. Latif’s shoulders shook, but he wiped his cheek quickly. “Her words soften old wounds.”

Aleena rested her hand on his. “Maybe both of you can let go now.”

Beneath the glowing mango trees, past sins and sorrows seemed lighter. The night felt gentler as Aleena helped the old man to his feet, her heart certain that, tonight, healing had finally entered the orchard.

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