The Last Letter

Margaret had lived in the same stone cottage for 58 years. Her husband, Thomas, had died young, and though she never remarried, she kept his memory alive with daily letters she wrote to him. Every morning at dawn, she sat by the window with a cup of tea, writing her thoughts to the man she still loved. Then, she’d seal the envelope, place a single daisy on top, and leave it in the mailbox. No one ever came to collect it.

The neighbors thought it was sweet.

On a rainy Thursday in October, a young mailman named Evan was assigned Margaret’s route, as the other one called in sick. Neighbors warned him not to bother with her mailbox, but curiosity got the better of him. That morning, he found the envelope with the daisy, rain-speckled but carefully sealed. He opened it.

Inside was a short message that read: “I know it wasn’t the storm that took you. I know what really happened. I remember now.”

Chills ran through Evan’s spine. He looked back toward the window and saw Margaret staring at him with calm, tired eyes. She waved.

He left the letter in the box and continued his route.

That night, Evan searched local archives. He discovered that Thomas hadn’t died in a boating accident, as the town believed. The storm had been rough, but the investigation had left unanswered questions. Scratches on the side of the boat. Bruises on Thomas’s body didn’t match a drowning. Whispers from neighbors long gone.

The next morning, Evan returned. The mailbox was empty. So was the house.

Margaret had passed away in her sleep.

Her last letter was found resting on her writing desk, unsealed. It read: “The truth was too heavy to carry. But I’m ready now, Thomas. I’ll see you soon.”

The police opened the case again after Evan came forward.

When the lake was drained weeks later, they found Thomas’s boat, which was half-rotted and tangled in reeds, and two skeletons.

One was Thomas.

The other was Margaret.