The Last Letter

The envelope had been wedged between the floorboards for forty years. Sarah found it while helping her mother clear out the old farmhouse, its edges yellowed and soft as cotton.

She sat on the dusty floor, the late afternoon sun slanting through the window, and carefully opened it. The handwriting inside was a man's—bold strokes that had faded to sepia.

"My dearest Eleanor," it began.

Sarah's grandmother had been dead for fifteen years. She had never mentioned anyone who might have written to her this way. The letter spoke of a summer, of promises made under a willow tree, of a love that had to remain secret.

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The letter ended without a signature, just three words: "Always, your J."

Sarah folded the letter carefully and slipped it into her pocket. Some secrets, she decided, were meant to stay buried. But she would keep this one close to her heart.