The Old Postman’s Bridge

THE STORY

The small town of Dar-e-Noor was divided—not by walls, not by borders, but by a single, crumbling wooden bridge that crossed the quiet river running through its heart.

Decades earlier, the bridge had meaning. It connected the two sides of town, allowing shopkeepers, families, and children to move freely. People crossed it daily—sharing greetings, delivering goods, attending weddings, breaking bread together.

But over the years, misunderstandings grew.

A business deal gone wrong…

A hurtful rumor…

A misinterpreted argument…

Slowly, two sides of the town—Hillside and Riverside—stopped talking. People avoided the bridge. They stopped crossing. The bridge fell silent, and so did the community.

Life continued, but something precious had been lost.

Only one man still crossed the bridge every day: Old Postman Daud.

THE LAST MAN WHO BELIEVED IN CONNECTION

Daud had delivered letters in Dar-e-Noor for more than 40 years. He remembered the laughter that once filled the town, the festivals, the families that sat together at dusk. He remembered when people believed in each other.

Even now, when no one spoke across the river, Daud still walked his route—crossing the old bridge twice a day, his tired boots creaking on the wood.

People often asked him:

“Why do you still go to the other side, Daud Chacha? They don’t want us.”

But Daud would simply smile.

“Letters don’t choose sides. Neither should we.”

Yet deep inside, his heart was heavy. He missed the unity the town once had.

THE DISCOVERY

One rainy afternoon, while sorting old mail in the abandoned storage room of the post office, Daud found a dusty wooden chest. Inside were hundreds of letters—unopened, undelivered.

He gently wiped the dust away and gasped.

These letters were addressed from families in Hillside to families in Riverside… and from Riverside to Hillside.

They were dated from the early years of the conflict—times when people had still tried to stay connected, even as the division grew. Times when they wanted to apologize, explain, reach out.

Love letters.

Apologies.

Requests for help.

Birthday wishes.

Condolences.

But due to growing tension, fear, and misunderstanding… the letters were never delivered.

Daud held the old letters against his chest.

“These belong where they were meant to go,” he whispered.

THE FIRST DELIVERY

The next morning, Daud began hand-delivering the old letters—one at a time.

At the first house, an elderly woman opened a faded envelope trembling in her hands. It was from her sister on Riverside… written twenty years ago.

The letter said:

“I miss you. I know you’re angry. But please don’t let this become the story of our children.”

Tears filled her eyes.

At another home, a man read a letter from his former business partner, apologizing for something he had misunderstood.

A young woman received a letter from the mother she had lost—wishing her happiness on her 10th birthday.

Every letter reopened a door that had once been closed.

Rumors spread across the town:

“The postman found something…”

“He’s delivering old letters—the ones written before the separation…”

“What’s in them?”

“Are there messages for us too?”

And soon, people followed Daud on his route, hoping to see if there were letters for them.

THE BRIDGE OF FEELINGS

When letters had been delivered to all of Hillside, the people asked Daud

“What about Riverside? Do they… have letters too?”

Daud nodded.

“But I cannot deliver them alone. They need to come from the hearts that wrote them.”

The townspeople looked at each other—hesitant, nervous, uncertain.

Then one voice said, “We should go together.”

Holding lanterns and old letters close to their chests, the people of Hillside walked toward the old wooden bridge.

On the other side, Riverside families were waiting too—having heard the news.

The two groups stopped at the center of the bridge. Silence hung heavy, thick with years of hidden hurt.

And then Daud spoke softly:

“Before the division… you were all friends. Family. Loved ones. These letters are proof you once wanted peace. Maybe today… you can choose it again.”

THE UNRAVELING OF YEARS

One by one, people stepped forward, exchanging letters.

A woman embraced her childhood friend.

Two brothers reunited after decades.

Former business partners shook hands with trembling fingers.

Children watched their parents cry—tears of forgiveness, not anger.

And slowly, the bridge filled with voices, apologies, laughter, and relief.

The town held its breath…

…and exhaled after years of silence.

THE FESTIVAL OF UNITY

Weeks later, Hillside and Riverside decided to rebuild the decayed wooden bridge together. Every family helped—carving wood, painting railings, planting flowers along the edges.

On the day the new bridge opened, Daud was asked to cut the ribbon.

He refused gently.

“This bridge was rebuilt by all of you,” he said. “Let a child cut it… so the next generation remembers peace, not division.”

A little boy and girl—one from each side—cut the ribbon together.

The crowd cheered.

At sunset, the villagers lit hundreds of lanterns and placed them along the river, letting them float gently across the water. The river shimmered like a ribbon of stars.

Daud stood on the bridge, tears in his eyes, whispering:

“Letters don’t choose sides. Neither does the heart