The Lost Letter

The envelope had no return address, only a name written in delicate handwriting: “For Mai.” The ink had faded slightly, as if time itself had been touching it.

Thang, the mail carrier, found it wedged in the corner of his old delivery bag a letter that had somehow escaped notice for months, maybe even years. He turned it over in his hands, feeling a quiet weight. It didn’t look important, but something about it whispered: “Don’t throw me away.”

That afternoon, after finishing his usual route, he decided to find the addressee. The address led him to a small street lined with flowering trees, the kind that shed pink petals like soft rain. Number 47 was a narrow, blue painted house with potted plants by the door.

He knocked. A woman in her seventies answered. “Yes?” she said kindly.

“Are you Mrs. Mai?” he asked, holding up the envelope. “I found this letter it was misplaced in the mail system. I believe it’s meant for you.”

She blinked, taking the letter with trembling hands. “Oh dear… may I ask how long it’s been lost?”

“I’m not sure,” Thang admitted. “But it looks… old.”

She nodded slowly. “Please, come in. I think I should read it.”

The house smelled of tea and jasmine. She sat down at a small wooden table, carefully opening the envelope. Inside was a single page, yellowed at the edges. Her eyes scanned the words, and her breath caught softly.

“It’s from my husband,” she whispered. “He wrote it while he was in the hospital before he passed away. It must have been mailed right before…” Her voice broke, but only for a moment. “He used to write me letters every week, even though we lived in the same city. He said love feels truer when written.”

Thang stood quietly. “I’m sorry it came so late.”

Mrs. Mai smiled through tears. “No. It came when it was meant to. I think… I was ready to read it now.”

She placed the letter on the table and poured two cups of tea. “You’ve done more than deliver a letter, young man,” she said gently. “You’ve delivered a memory.”

They talked for a while about her husband, her garden, and the little joys of the neighborhood. Before Thang left, she handed him a small envelope of his own. “A thank you,” she said. “Don’t open it until you’re home.”

When he did, he found a folded piece of paper with a few simple words written in the same graceful handwriting:

*“Some messages take years to arrive. But they always find the right heart.”*

The next morning, as he began his deliveries again, Thang tucked the note into his pocket. The sun was warm, the streets were alive, and somehow, every letter in his bag felt a little more important.