Letters to the Lighthouse Keeper
Every Tuesday, Clara walked down the rocky cliffside path to slide a folded envelope into the rusted slot of the abandoned coastal station. She had maintained this quiet ritual for three long years, writing down every mundane detail of her days as if her late husband were still sitting across from her at the kitchen table. It was her way of keeping grief tethered to the physical world rather than letting it drift away into the empty fog. Then came a stormy Tuesday when she found a slip of paper already waiting inside the rusted box, written in a shaky, unfamiliar hand. The stranger noted that her words had kept him company through his own dark recovery, proving that messages cast into the void sometimes find a living heart.
0