David sat in his childhood room, the stack of letters trembling in his hands. Each one was a window into his mother’s heart—a heart he had taken for granted. Her words, so full of love and longing, cut through the years of silence between them.

He found a letter dated ten years earlier. It spoke of her hope to see him at Christmas. He hadn’t come that year. Another letter, written five years ago, apologised for calling too often. He barely remembered the voicemails she’d left, most of which he had ignored.

The realisation that she had kept writing, even as the years passed without a reply, tore at him. She had never given up on him, even when he had all but abandoned her.

After hours of reading, David carefully placed the letters back into the wooden box. He glanced around the room, unchanged from the days when he was a boy. On the bedside table sat a picture of the two of them from his university graduation. She was smiling, her arm around him, so proud.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a colleague asking if he’d be back in the office on Monday. David stared at the screen, his life in the city suddenly feeling hollow and distant. He turned the phone off and set it aside.

Over the next few days, David stayed in the house. He cleaned the rooms, sorted through old photos, and made arrangements for her belongings. Among her things, he found an unfinished scrapbook labelled “For David’s Family”. The pages were filled with clippings, notes, and photos of moments he had missed—neighbourhood events, her garden in full bloom, birthdays she had celebrated alone.

In the quiet moments, David felt her presence everywhere. He could almost hear her voice, gentle and warm, urging him to forgive himself, to move forward.

Before leaving, David carried the wooden box of letters to his car. He made one last stop at the cemetery, where her name was freshly etched on a stone.

"I’m sorry, Mum," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I thought I had all the time in the world. I should’ve come back sooner."

As the wind rustled through the trees, David made a promise to himself. He would not let her memory fade into regret. He would honour her love by living a life she would be proud of—a life full of connection, not distance.

Back in the city, David quit his high-powered job and moved back to his hometown. He volunteered at the local community centre where his mother used to spend her evenings, helping others.

The wooden box stayed with him, a reminder of her unwavering love. And though she was gone, her letters taught him a lesson he would carry forever: love, even when unanswered, never truly fades. It lingers, waiting to be rediscovered.