The Last Letter

It was a Tuesday in late September when Eliza found the letter. She wasn’t looking for it, not really. She had been cleaning out the attic of her grandmother’s old cottage in Devon, England — the kind of place where dust felt like part of the wallpaper, and time moved differently.

Eliza had come to the cottage for space. Her fiancé, Andrew, had recently called off their engagement after four years, citing “uncertainty” and “timing.” She had cited cowardice. After throwing the ring into the River Thames and spending two weeks crying into cheap wine, her therapist had gently suggested a change of scenery.

So here she was, among trunks of old photo albums, forgotten books, and a thousand shades of silence.

The letter was in a brown leather box marked simply: **For Her**.

Curious, Eliza opened it and pulled out a single envelope, yellowed with age but sealed with a crimson wax stamp. Her name was scrawled on the front — **Eliza Grace Bennett** — in handwriting she didn’t recognize.

Her heart skipped.

She broke the seal and opened it carefully, the paper fragile in her hands. The ink, though faded, was legible.

Dearest Eliza,

If you're reading this, then I've already missed you by a few lifetimes. But I hope you found this when you needed it most.

Let me explain.

My name is William. We’ve never met, and yet I’ve loved you for a long, long time. I’m writing this in the summer of 1942. The world is at war, and I am not sure if I will return. But your grandmother — Rose — swore that one day, my words would find their way to you. That you'd need to hear them when love seemed farthest from your heart.

Strange, isn’t it? To love someone not yet born. But I believe in souls that meet across time. And I think ours did.

If this seems mad, forgive me. But if your heart feels the same pull mine does — even now — then maybe this letter found you exactly when it should.

All my love,

William James Thorne

Eliza read the letter three times before the weight of it settled in. It had to be a joke. A romantic prank, maybe something her grandmother cooked up to entertain herself. But the letter didn’t feel like a game.

The paper smelled of old tobacco and sea salt. The writing — elegant, deliberate — didn’t resemble her grandmother’s looping cursive at all.

She took it downstairs and found an old photo album. After flipping through pages of black-and-white memories, she paused.

There.

A young man in uniform, standing beside her grandmother in a garden. He had kind eyes and a crooked smile. In neat type below the photo: *Rose & William – Summer, 1942.*

Eliza stared at the picture, heart thudding. So, he was real.

But who was he to her?

That night, she asked her mother over the phone.

“William Thorne?” her mother echoed. “Yes, he was a friend of your grandmother’s. They were very close before she met your grandfather. He died in the war, I believe. Why do you ask?”

Eliza hesitated. “No reason. Just found some old photos.”

She didn’t mention the letter. It felt like something sacred.

---

Over the following days, Eliza found herself drawn to the attic again and again. She re-read William’s letter every morning, like a ritual. There was a strange comfort in it — in him. As though someone, long ago, had looked through the veil of time and seen her heart clearly.

Then, five days later, she found a second letter.

It was hidden behind a false panel in the box.

Eliza,

I’m alive.

I didn’t think I’d survive France, but somehow I did. Rose told me she’s going to marry someone else — and I don’t blame her. Time moves differently for those of us left behind.

But I’m not angry. If anything, I’m grateful. She told me she’d keep my letters safe. That one day they might reach the girl I kept dreaming about. You.

It’s strange, falling for someone you’ve never met. But when I think of you, there’s this peace — like I’ve already known your laugh, your stubbornness, your kindness. Maybe the world isn’t ready for us yet. But I believe we’ll meet again. Somewhere. Some time.

Until then, I’ll keep writing.

W\.J.T.

Over the next few weeks, Eliza found three more letters — each hidden in clever places throughout the cottage: behind a loose floorboard, tucked in the spine of an old book, and inside an empty teacup in the china cabinet.

Each letter was more personal than the last. William wrote about the war, about Rose’s kindness, about dreams he had of a girl with ink-stained fingers and a defiant smile — her. He wrote of poetry and hope, of fear and longing. It wasn’t the sweeping, cliché romance of movies. It was quieter, deeper.

And somehow, she had started to fall for him.

One rainy morning in mid-October, Eliza sat in the garden with a cup of tea, the final letter on her lap.

Eliza,

This is the last letter. I’ve decided to stop writing because I want to start living — even if it’s without you. Maybe one day, if souls do return, I’ll find you again. And if I do, I’ll recognize you by your eyes. I imagine they’re fierce. Brave.

If you’ve found these letters, then know you’ve been loved — wildly, irrationally, truly — across time. Maybe that’s enough.

Love always,

William

She folded the letter and stared at the grey sky.

For the first time in months, she didn’t feel broken.

She felt… loved.

And that made all the difference.

Epilogue

A year later, Eliza stood in the same garden, now in full bloom. She had published the letters in a book titled *“Across Time: Letters to Eliza”*, which unexpectedly became a bestseller. Readers from around the world sent her letters — some believed in reincarnation, others in soulmates, and some in fate.

But the most curious one came on a Tuesday.

It was from a man named **Will Thorne**, a history professor from Oxford.

He had read her book. And something about the handwriting on the letters looked strangely familiar — like his own, but from another life.

They met for coffee.

Then lunch.

Then everything else.

He didn’t believe in destiny. Not really.

But when he looked at Eliza, he felt like he was finally home.