I never meant to spy on her. But when I saw that little girl with pigtails slipping letters into an old, abandoned mailbox, my curiosity got the best of me. What I discovered would force me to face the ghosts I’d been running from for two years.
I woke up to the sound of nothing. Just the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of my old house settling into its foundation.
My eyes drifted to the empty pillow beside me—still perfectly fluffed, untouched, just as I’d made the bed yesterday.
Two years ago, my mornings were filled with warmth. The scent of brewing coffee, the rustle of newspaper pages, and Sarah’s sleepy smile when she caught me staring at her. Now, it was just me and the silence that followed me like an unwanted shadow.
“Another thrilling day in paradise,” I muttered, pouring myself a cup of coffee. My voice sounded foreign in the empty kitchen.
My life had become painfully predictable. Work, eat, sleep, repeat. I had mastered the art of existing without really living. My freelance editing job allowed me to stay home for weeks without talking to anyone beyond the grocery store cashier.
Then, my phone buzzed on the counter.
It was my sister. Again. Her third call this week.
I watched it ring until it stopped.
I’ll call her back, I told myself.
Just like I had last week. And the week before that.
That evening, while collecting my mail, I found something strange among the usual stack of bills and advertisements—a small, unstamped envelope with childish handwriting.
To Dad.
I stood on my porch, staring at the envelope. It clearly wasn’t meant for me.
Inside, a single sheet of notebook paper was covered in careful, rounded handwriting:
Dear Dad,
I’m sorry I was mad at you the day before you left. I didn’t mean what 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 fingers over the words.
I never got to be anyone’s dad.
Folding the letter carefully, I slipped it back into the envelope. I had to return it. I had seen a young girl playing in the yard a few houses down. Maybe it belonged to her.
The woman who answered the door looked exhausted, the kind of tiredness that sleep wouldn’t fix. When I explained about the letter, her expression softened.
“Lily’s father passed away last year,” she said quietly. “She still writes to him sometimes. It helps her cope.”
“I understand,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended. “Loss is… complicated.”
She took the envelope with a grateful nod. “Thank you for bringing this 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 taking out the trash. She was walking down the street clutching another envelope, her dark pigtails bouncing with each step. But instead of heading toward her house, she stopped at the old, rusted mailbox in front of the abandoned Miller place.
No one had lived there for years.
She glanced around, as if making sure no one was watching, then slipped the letter inside.
That night, on my way back from a rare evening walk, I stopped in front of that rusted mailbox. Almost without thinking, I flipped it open.
Empty.
I checked again. Nothing. Someone was taking the letters.
The next evening, I sat 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 them.
As twilight settled, a figure approached. Tall, thin, shoulders hunched like he carried an invisible weight. He glanced around, then reached into the mailbox, retrieving Lily’s letter with surprising gentleness before slipping it into his jacket pocket.
I waited until he was halfway down the block before following him from 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.
For twenty minutes, I debated what to do. I could just forget the whole thing and go home. But something in me refused to let this go.
I found myself knocking on his door.
When it opened, I came face to face with a man about my age, though life had been harder on him. His eyes widened in alarm.
“Can I help you?” he asked warily.
I cut straight to the point. “I saw you take the letter. The one from Lily.”
His face paled. For a moment, I thought he might slam the door.
Instead, his shoulders sagged. “You’d better come in.”
Inside, the apartment was sparse but clean. Books stacked on every surface, a small desk covered in papers.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Daniel. I’m… I mean, I was her father’s brother.” His voice was thick. “You’re not from the family, are you?”
I shook my head. “No. I live down the street. One of her letters ended up in my mailbox by mistake.”
Daniel pulled open a drawer, revealing a stack of letters, all in the same childish handwriting.
“I found the first one while checking on the old house. My brother and I grew up there.”
“And you’ve been collecting them ever since.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “I know I should have responded, but…”
“But what?”
“My brother and I had a falling out before he died. Nothing major… just stupid brother stuff. I kept telling myself I’d visit. But I never did.”
“So you disappeared?”
“I couldn’t face them. His wife. Lily. What right did I have to be part of their lives when I hadn’t even made time for him when he was alive?”
He pulled out another stack of letters. “These are my responses. I just… never sent them.”
At that moment, I saw myself in Daniel. Pushing away everyone who cared because facing them meant facing our grief.
“Lily deserves to know you care,” I said softly.
The next evening, after much convincing, Daniel stood beside me at Lily’s doorstep, looking like he might bolt.
When Lily saw him, her eyes widened. “Uncle Danny?” Her voice was small but clear. “Where have you been?”
Daniel’s voice broke. “I was scared. And I hate myself for it.”
Lily stepped forward and hugged him. “I missed you.”
Daniel fell to his knees, hugging her back. “I missed you too, Lily-bug.”
That night, I walked home and did something I hadn’t done in two years—I called my sister.
Maybe, just maybe, it was time to start living again.
