I never meant to spy on her. But when I saw that little girl with pigtails slipping letters into an abandoned mailbox, my curiosity got the better of me. What I discovered would force me to face the ghosts I had been running from for two years.
I woke up to the sound of nothing. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of this old house settling into its foundation.
My eyes drifted to the empty pillow beside me, still perfectly fluffed from when I made the bed yesterday.
Two years ago, my mornings were filled with the scent of brewing coffee, the rustle of newspaper pages turning, and Sarah’s sleepy smile when she caught me staring at her.
Now, it’s just me and the silence that follows me from room to room like an unwanted shadow.
“Another thrilling day in paradise,” I muttered to the empty kitchen as I poured myself a cup of coffee.
My life had become painfully predictable after Sarah died. Work, eat, sleep, repeat. I had perfected the art of existing without living.
On top of that, my freelance editing job enabled me to stay at home for weeks without speaking to anyone beyond the grocery store cashier.
Suddenly, my phone buzzed on the counter.
It was my sister. Again. This was her third call this week.
I watched it ring until it stopped.
I’ll call her back, I told myself.
Just like I told myself last week. And the week before that.
One evening, as I collected my mail, I noticed something unusual mixed in with the standard envelopes. A small, unstamped envelope with childish handwriting that read simply, “To Dad.”
I stood on my porch, staring at the envelope. It clearly wasn’t meant for me. Turning it over in my hands, I wondered how it had found its way into my mailbox.
Inside was a single sheet of notebook paper covered in careful, rounded handwriting.
Dear Dad,
I’m sorry I was mad at you the day before you left. I didn’t mean those things I said. Mom says you can still hear me, even though you’re in heaven now. I hope that’s true.
I got an A on my science project. It was about butterflies. Remember how we used to catch them in the backyard? I miss doing that with you.
I love you a billion stars.
Lily
I read it twice, each word landing like a stone in my chest.
Sarah and I had talked about having kids. We had even picked out names. Back then, we had no idea we were planning a future that would never come.
“To Dad,” I whispered, running my finger over the words.
I never got to be anyone’s dad.
I folded the letter carefully and slipped it back into its envelope. I thought the right thing to do would be to return it.
I had seen a young girl playing in the yard a few houses down. I thought I’d start from there.
The woman who answered the door looked tired, the kind of exhaustion that sleep doesn’t fix. When I explained about finding the letter, her expression shifted from confusion to understanding.
“Lily’s father passed away last year,” she said quietly. “She still writes to him sometimes. It helps her cope.”
“I understand,” I replied, my voice rougher than I intended. “Loss is… complicated. The letter somehow came into my box, so I wanted to make sure she got it back.”
She took the envelope with a grateful nod. “Thank you for bringing it back. It means more than you know.”
As I walked home, a question nagged at me. If Lily writes letters to her father, where does she put them?
Clearly not in her home mailbox if this one had somehow ended up in mine.
A few days later, I spotted Lily while I was taking out the trash. She was walking down the street clutching another envelope, her dark pigtails bouncing with each step. Instead of heading toward her house, she stopped at an old, rusted mailbox in front of the abandoned Miller place.
No one had lived there for years.
I watched as she glanced around nervously before slipping the letter inside. There was something secretive about her movements, like she was performing a ritual no one else was supposed to see.
That night, on my way back from a rare evening walk, I found myself standing in front of that rusted mailbox. Almost without thinking, I flipped open the mailbox.
It was empty.
I checked again, thinking maybe the letter had slipped to the back, but there was nothing inside. The letter was gone.
Someone was taking them.
As I walked home, questions swirled in my mind. Who would take letters meant for a dead man? And why?
The thought that someone might be interfering with a child’s grieving process made my stomach turn.
For the first time in months, I felt something other than the dull ache of my own grief. It was a spark of protective anger and curiosity that refused to be ignored.
Little did I know this spark would lead me to something I wasn’t expecting.
The next evening, I found myself sitting in my car across from the abandoned house, feeling half-crazy for doing so. What kind of middle-aged man stakes out a mailbox?
But I needed to know who was taking those letters.
As twilight settled over the neighborhood, a figure approached the rusted mailbox. He was tall and thin, with hunched shoulders like he was carrying an invisible weight.
The man glanced around furtively before reaching into the mailbox and retrieving Lily’s latest letter. He held it with unexpected gentleness, almost reverently, before slipping it into his jacket pocket.
I waited until he was halfway down the block before following him at a distance. He led me to a small apartment complex on the edge of town.
I watched as he unlocked number 14 and disappeared inside.
I sat in my car for twenty minutes, debating what to do next. This was none of my business. I could drive home, forget the whole thing, and return to my comfortable isolation.
Instead, I found myself standing at door number 14. My heart pounded against my chest as I knocked.
When the door opened, I came face to face with a man about my age, though life had been harder on him. His eyes widened in alarm when he saw me.
“Can I help you?” His voice was wary.
I cut straight to the point. “I saw you take the letter from the mailbox. The one from Lily.”
His eyes widened in surprise. For a moment, I thought he might slam the door.
Instead, his shoulders sagged in defeat.
“You’d better come in,” he said.
Little did I know, stepping into that apartment would change not just Lily’s life, but my own.
