Evelyn sat by the window, her frail hands clutching a pen. Outside, snow blanketed the empty street, muffling the world in silence. The house was still except for the faint ticking of a clock, marking moments that felt too long and too short all at once.

She stared at the blank sheet of paper on the desk before her. For years, she'd written to her son, David. She’d sent birthday cards, Christmas letters, and postcards from every holiday she’d taken since he left for university. She always signed them with love, always waited for a reply that never came.

But today, she wasn’t writing a letter to send.

"Dear David," she began, her handwriting shaky, "I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. Maybe you’ve changed your address, or maybe you’ve just forgotten me. I don’t blame you. People grow apart. But I need you to know that I never stopped loving you."

Her hand trembled as she wrote, and tears blurred her vision.

"I still remember the day you left. You were so excited to start your life in the city. I was proud of you, but I never told you enough. I thought I’d have time. I thought you’d come back."

The words spilled onto the page faster than she could think them. Memories flooded her—David’s first steps, his laughter echoing through the house, the way he’d hug her so tightly when he was scared of thunderstorms.

"I kept your room the same, you know," she wrote. "I thought maybe one day you’d visit, and it would feel like home again. But the years kept passing, and now I don’t know if you even remember this place."

Evelyn set the pen down and folded the letter carefully. She placed it in an envelope and wrote David’s name on the front, though she knew she’d never post it.

She tucked it into a small wooden box on her bedside table, alongside dozens of other unsent letters.

Later that evening, Evelyn passed away in her sleep.

A week later, David received a phone call from a neighbour who had been checking on Evelyn regularly. They explained how they had found her, peaceful and surrounded by her belongings, and thought he should know. They had found David’s number in an old address book Evelyn kept by the phone.

Standing in his childhood room, untouched by time, David noticed the wooden box. When he opened it and began to read, his hands shook, and his heart broke under the weight of what he had lost.

For hours, he sat there, surrounded by letters, each one a piece of his mother’s love. And for the first time in years, he cried.