Love Letters to a Ghost

Love Letters to a Ghost

"A Silent Conversation Between the Living and the Lost"

Prologue

They say time heals all wounds, but time forgot mine. It walked past the ache in my chest like a stranger, blind to the empty chair at my dinner table, deaf to the silence in my soul. This isn’t a story of love found—it’s a story of love that refused to leave, even when life did.

Chapter One: The Last Goodbye

The funeral was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that presses against your ears until your own heartbeat is the loudest thing you can hear. She used to say she hated cemeteries—not for the dead, but for the living, who came dressed in black to perform sadness like a stage play. I didn’t dress in black that day. I wore her favorite color—sea green—because I couldn’t let her memory drown in tradition.

That night, I wrote the first letter.

My dearest Ayla,They buried your body, but not your voice. I still hear it when I close my eyes—soft, stubborn, laughing like the world couldn’t touch you. I know you’re gone, but I can’t stop talking to you. Maybe these letters will help me remember... or maybe they’ll help me forget.Love, always.Zayan.

I never expected a reply. But grief has its own language—and sometimes, if you listen closely, the dead speak back in ways only the heart can hear.

Chapter Two: Ghosts Don’t Knock, But Memories Do

A week passed. The apartment still smelled like her perfume. I hadn’t touched anything. Her toothbrush remained in the cup, her earrings left on the windowsill where the sunlight used to catch them just right.

I found her journal tucked beneath the bed, a pressed daisy marking the last page she’d written. The words read:

"If I die tomorrow, know that I lived today. And that I loved Zayan more than any words I ever wrote."

I held the daisy to my heart and cried. The next letter came quicker.

My Ayla,Your journal found me tonight. It still smells like your laughter. How did you know I’d need your words when mine ran out? It hurts to breathe sometimes. I find myself setting the table for two. I think I’m losing my mind, or maybe finding pieces of yours.Forever missing you,Zayan.

Chapter Three: Between Dreams and Dawn

The dreams began not long after. In them, Ayla stood at the edge of the sea, her dress dancing with the wind, her eyes full of things I couldn’t name. She never spoke in the dreams—but always smiled.

When I woke, the pillow was damp. I’d whispered her name in my sleep so many times it became a morning prayer.

The letters became ritual. I placed them in the garden she once planted. The roses, though unattended, bloomed more beautifully than ever. It felt like her. Like Ayla.

My eternal Ayla,Your garden breathes. The soil still remembers your touch. I sit here now, writing as the sun bleeds across the sky, thinking of the way your fingers used to trail the petals. You were never a flower, Ayla. You were the whole garden.

Chapter Four: The Letter She Left

It was three months after she passed when I received a letter. Addressed to me. In her handwriting.

Ayla had written it before her final surgery, knowing the odds were against her.

My Zayan,If you’re reading this, then I am where you cannot follow—yet. But promise me you’ll live. Cry, yes. Write to me, if it helps. But don’t forget to laugh. Don’t forget to dance. Don’t let my death be the end of your story.

I’ll be waiting by the sea.Yours, always—Ayla.

I broke that day. And I healed a little too.

Chapter Five: A Silent Conversation

Years passed. The garden grew wild. I traveled, laughed again, even found fragments of peace. But I never stopped writing.

Every birthday. Every anniversary. Every whisper of her memory—I wrote. The letters filled a box now, bound in a ribbon the color of the sea.

One day, I took them to the ocean.

I sat where she stood in my dreams. I opened each letter, read them aloud, and let the wind carry them across the waves.

A silent conversation. Between the living and the lost.

Epilogue

Love doesn’t end. It lingers. It speaks through photographs, garden blooms, unfinished songs, and the silence of empty chairs.

“Love Letters to a Ghost” isn’t about sorrow. It’s about memory. It’s about how some voices are too loud for death to silence.

Ayla lives in every word I write.

And I? I live because she once loved me.