On the edge of a quiet village stood a crooked little house with a rusted mailbox that hadn’t seen a letter in years. Inside lived old Mr. Ellery, who once wrote letters for everyone in town—love letters, farewell notes, apologies—each one sealed with his steady, graceful handwriting.

Now, with trembling hands and eyes dim with age, he wrote his final letter. It wasn’t for a client this time. It was for her.

“Dear Clara,” he began, “I never stopped loving you, even after you chose another life. You gave me the silence I needed to understand that love doesn’t always ask to be returned.”

He signed it, tucked it into an envelope, and walked to the postbox, just as he did fifty years ago when he first mailed a letter to her. This time, he didn’t know if she would receive it. He only knew that it needed to be sent.

The next morning, a gust of wind blew the red flag on the mailbox up, and a bird perched on it, singing a song that no one had heard in a long time.

Far away, a woman opened her mailbox and found an envelope that smelled faintly of ink and lilacs. Her hands trembled as she read, tears falling on the paper.

Sometimes, letters arrive exactly when they’re meant to.