**The Blue Letters from the Past**
When Andrew found the letter in the mailbox, he knew at once—it wasn’t from the bank, the council, or some marketing nonsense. The envelope was thick, matte blue, its edges worn with time, carrying the scent of years untouched. The paper felt like an old book cover left forgotten in an attic. On the back, just two initials: “E.S.” The handwriting was delicate, slightly slanted to the right, as if written by someone who always knew what to say but never rushed to say it.
He didn’t open it straight away. He carried it upstairs to his flat, dropped it onto the windowsill, sat down, then stood again. Silently, he brewed tea, scrubbed a cup until it squeaked, dried it with an old towel. His thoughts tangled, one rising above the rest: *Who even writes letters anymore?* Especially to him. Especially like this.
When he finally unfolded the sheet, creased into careful quarters, the air in the room seemed to thicken. The paper was thin, faintly yellowed, smelling of ink and something intangible—like a whisper from another childhood. The words were brief. But there was more in those lines than in a hundred conversations:
*”Andrew. I dreamed of that day on the platform. You stood with your backpack, I held a ticket. I didn’t leave. I just couldn’t. But you were already gone. All of it remained. All of it—blue. If you’re reading this, I’m no longer here. But the letters—mine are left. In the house by the old bridge. They’re yours. E.S.”*
He read it once. Then again. Sat. Then paced the room, as if tracing a circle. Inside him, something trembled—not from fear, but from the sudden return of a pain he’d long forgotten, like the scent of a childhood home faded after moving away. It was Eve. His Eve. The one who listened to music at full volume and recited poetry aloud, as if shielding herself from the world. The one with that stubborn strand of hair always falling across her face. He remembered her—every last detail.
Fifteen years ago, they spent every summer together. Eve lived in a little house at the edge of the village, Willowbrook, near the old stone bridge over the stream. She had a dog—a giant shaggy thing named Badger, who adored lying at her feet like some silent guardian. In summer, they’d row along the water, sip elderflower tea from a flask, and talk about nonsense that somehow felt like the most important things in the world. She listened to him even when he didn’t speak. And he fell for every one of her silences.
He remembered that day at the train station in York. The air had been crisp, leaves sticking to the pavement, Eve wrapped in that old green coat. He’d said, *”You’re leaving,”* and she’d nodded. Her lips quivered, but no words came. He turned and walked away. And everything left inside him—turned blue. Now, at last, he knew what to call it.
The house stood just as it had. Only a little more weathered, curtains drawn tight, moss creeping up the steps, paint peeling from the railings. But the gate opened as it always had. The key—still under the stone by the cherry tree. It felt like a blow—as if someone had been keeping this moment safe for him all along. Inside smelled of dried lavender, old books, and… something of her. The air seemed to recognise who had come.
On the wall, a map dotted with pins. Each held a note. *”You were here.”* Or a date. Or simply, *”I waited.”* In the cupboard, behind a faded throw, he found a box. Inside—dozens of letters. All on blue paper. In blue ink. With blue borders, as if written at dusk, in waiting, in hope they’d one day find their way to him.
He sat on the floor and began to read. The lump in his throat grew. The letters were her. Her voice in every line. *”Andrew. Today I remembered your laugh.”* — *”Andrew, you came to me in a dream again. I woke in tears.”* — *”Andrew, I’m furious at you for leaving first. But I still love you.”* One letter had been torn and taped together. At the bottom—*”Forgive me.”*
He stayed the night. Lit a candle, listened to the floorboards creak. At dawn, he stepped onto the porch with the box in hand, watching the water. It was still, like the letter that had arrived too late. He didn’t know why Eve had kept them. Maybe—she knew he’d return one day. He had.
The next day, he took the letters back to London. Held the box on his lap the whole train ride, terrified of dropping it. That evening, he brewed tea, spread the letters across the table. Bought an album—blue, cloth-bound, like a school memento. Slipped each letter into its sleeve. One by one. Labeled it: *”E.S.—2003–2008.”*
And then, for the first time in years, he wrote a poem. By hand. In blue ink. The lines came clear, steady. There were no words like *”love”* or *”fate.”* But it was all there. No embellishments. Just truth.
He slipped the page into an envelope. Wrote an address that no longer existed. Sent it. Just because. To finish it. Or to begin again.
Sometimes letters arrive too late. But sometimes—just when they’re needed. Even if there’s no one left to read them.