"The Last Letter from Noor"

"The Last Letter from Noor"

A boy by the name of Aarif lived in a small, forgotten town between the misty hills of Bengal. He wasn’t special—not in the way stories usually begin. He was quiet, shy, and awkward, but he was forever in love with Noor, a girl. Noor was the kind of girl who stopped the flow of time. Her laughter was the music of spring, her eyes held stories of distant skies. She was the light in Aarif’s grey world, though she never knew the depth of his love.

They met at school, sharing books, rain-soaked afternoons, and silent gazes that said more than words ever could. However, life was harsh. Plans were in the works for Noor's family—big city goals far from the sleepy town and its narrow streets. The day she left, Aarif stood at the train station with a trembling heart and a letter he never had the courage to give her.

The years passed. Aarif stayed behind. The town aged, seasons changed, but Noor’s memory remained untouched in his heart—like a song forever stuck on a single, aching note.

He wrote her letters every month. lengthy letters Letters filled with poems, with updates about the old mango tree in the schoolyard, with confessions he was too afraid to say aloud. He never put them up. Simply stored them in a wooden box beneath his bed. The news came one day, soft and cruel. Noor had died in a car accident in Dhaka. She was only 24.

The world became hazy. Aarif didn’t cry. He just sat by the river all night, holding that same letter from the train station, the edges now yellow with time.

The next morning, he walked to the post office and mailed every letter he had written over the years—43 in total. But not to Noor. He mailed them to her younger sister, Lina, whom he barely knew.

After a few weeks, Lina came back. She accompanied her tears with a Noor-owned red scarf. “She kept this box,” Lina whispered, holding out a dusty wooden chest. “She read your first letter. The one you gave me to pass to her… She wrote back. She wrote so many letters. She just… never sent them.”

Aarif opened the box with trembling hands. Inside were dozens of letters, tied with red thread. Letters full of Noor's confessions, dreams, and the words Aarif had desired to hear. Aarif, I loved you as well. Always have. But I didn’t know how to stay.”

That evening, under the lantern's dim light, Aarif read every word from the porch. The town slept, but the river seemed to pause, as if it too was listening.

A few weeks later, Noor's red scarf was wrapped around his chest like a second heartbeat, and he passed away peacefully in his sleep. Under heavy rain, they buried him next to an old mango tree. People also say that in that town, when the wind is right, you can hear pages turning softly, like the sky is still reading love letters.