I never meant to spy on her. But when I saw a little girl slipping letters into a rusted mailbox outside an abandoned house, curiosity got the better of me.
That letter wasn’t meant for me—it was addressed “To Dad,” written in a child’s careful hand. Her name was Lily, and the letter was a tender message to her late father. I returned it to her mother, who explained Lily wrote letters to cope with her grief. But I couldn’t stop wondering—who was taking the letters?
A few days later, I watched Lily drop another letter into the same mailbox. That night, I saw a man retrieve it. I followed him to a small apartment and confronted him.
His name was Daniel—Lily’s uncle. He’d been reading her letters but never responded, consumed by guilt for abandoning the family after his brother’s death. He’d written replies, dozens of them, but never found the courage to send them.
Meeting Daniel forced me to confront my own grief. I’d been isolating myself since my wife Sarah died, pushing away everyone who cared.
The next morning, I encouraged Daniel to reconnect with Lily. Her mother was hesitant, but when Lily saw him, her heart led the way. They embraced, both crying, both healing.
That night, I visited Sarah’s grave for the first time in years. I told her everything and felt peace for the first time in a long while.
As I walked home, my phone rang. It was Mike—an old friend I’d ignored after Sarah’s funeral. This time, I answered.
Maybe Lily’s letter ended up in my mailbox by accident. Or maybe it was something more—a small miracle meant to help us all start healing.
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