The Letters Beneath the Willow

It started with a letter.

Not one sent by post or delivered by hand.

But one hidden—beneath the roots of an old, weeping willow in the garden of a house he never intended to visit.

Aarav, 26, was a photographer from the city. Restless. Tired of noise. Tired of people. He rented an old countryside cottage for a month, just to be alone.

The cottage was lovely, in a haunted kind of way. Creaky floorboards. Dusty mirrors. And that willow tree in the back—towering, bending, like it carried a secret too heavy to share.

On his third morning, he was sipping coffee on the porch when a breeze lifted something beneath the tree. A flicker of paper. Curious, he approached.

Buried beneath the exposed roots was a small tin box, rusted and worn.

Inside, wrapped in yellowing lace, were letters. Dozens.

The top one read:

"To the boy who finds this,

If you believe in forever, keep reading…"

Intrigued, he did.

The letters were written by a girl named Meher, dating back to 1973. Each letter was addressed to someone she hadn’t met yet.

To “the boy with the kind eyes.”

To “the one who sees beauty in silence.”

To “you, if you’re real.”

Meher had written them every month for three years, pouring her heart into words she buried, believing that someday, someone would find them.

Aarav couldn’t stop reading.

Her words felt personal, almost eerily connected to his own soul.

She talked about her dreams of painting the northern lights. Her fear of being forgotten. Her belief in soulmates who don’t always meet in the same lifetime.

And always, she signed off:

“Maybe one day, we’ll drink tea under this tree. Until then, I’m waiting — in words.”

Aarav spent every morning with those letters.

Each one unfolded a version of her—playful, philosophical, heartbroken, hopeful.

But then… the letters stopped.

The last one was dated December 1976.

No goodbye. No explanation.

Just:

“If you’ve come this far, maybe I was right to believe in you.

Come find me.

—M.”

Aarav couldn’t let it go.

He began researching. Asking the local librarian, the shopkeepers, the old man who sold honey down the lane.

Eventually, someone remembered her.

“Meher? Sweet girl. Used to live here with her grandmother. Moved to the city in the late ‘70s. Went to art school, I think. Quiet girl. Always talking about soulmates and stars.”

With a name and some luck, Aarav traced her to an old painting gallery in Lahore. Her work was still displayed there—bold, cosmic, full of light.

And there she was. In an old black-and-white photo on the wall.

A woman with soft eyes, a tilted smile, and a willow tree in the background.

She had died ten years ago.

Unmarried. No family. Just a legacy of paint and poetry.

Aarav sat beneath the willow that night, heart full.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t need to.

Somehow, she had written to him.

And somehow, she had known he would come.

He placed all the letters back in the tin, sealed it carefully, and buried it again.

But he left one new letter behind:

“To the girl who waited —

I believe in forever now.

And in you.”

Today, the cottage is still there. The willow still bends in the breeze.

Some say if you sit beneath it at sunset, you might find a letter not meant for you—but meant for someone just like you.

And if you listen closely, you can almost hear a laugh in the leaves.

Love doesn’t always need two hearts beating at once.

Sometimes, it only needs one heart brave enough to wait…

And another brave enough to read.

❤️ Moral of the Story:

True love doesn’t fear time.