The Last Letter: Chapter 3: Echoes of the Past

The drive to the Hastings estate was long, winding through countryside roads that seemed untouched by time. Eleanor could feel the weight of the letter in her bag, pressing against her side like a reminder that this journey was more than just curiosity—it was a duty. A duty to uncover a love story lost to history, a duty to understand if this discovery was, in some way, hers to find.

The estate stood like a monument to the past, its towering stone structure weathered but still imposing. The ivy curling around its edges whispered of stories locked within its walls, secrets waiting to be unearthed. She took a deep breath and stepped forward, knocking on the heavy wooden door.

An elderly caretaker, Mr. Whitmore, answered. His eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of her, scanning her face with quiet familiarity.

"You’re not the first to come asking about Lillian Hastings," he murmured, stepping aside to let her in.

Eleanor blinked. "Who else has come looking for her?"

Mr. Whitmore smiled faintly. "Historians, mostly. Writers hoping to romanticize her story. But none had what you carry—none had the letter."

Her breath hitched. "You know about it?"

"Of course," he said, leading her through the dimly lit halls. "It was meant to be sent. But it never reached its destination."

Eleanor followed him into what must have once been Lillian’s study. The room smelled of old books and dust, the scent of lost time. Against the back wall stood a grand mahogany desk, its surface pristine except for one thing—a diary. A fragile, leather-bound diary with gold-edged pages.

"Lillian wrote in it until the very end," Mr. Whitmore said, watching her carefully. "She never gave up hope."

Eleanor’s fingers hovered over the cover before she finally flipped it open. The ink had faded, but the words remained—haunting, aching, desperate.

"Today marks three years since the last letter I sent. I received none in return. Does he live? Does he dream of me as I dream of him? Or have I lost him to the silence of war?"

Eleanor swallowed hard, turning the page.

"I refuse to believe he is gone. Somewhere, he breathes. Somewhere, he remembers me. And if fate is cruel, then I shall defy it."

She shivered. The emotion embedded in those pages reached across time, pulling her into Lillian’s sorrow, her unwavering belief that Thomas still existed somewhere beyond her grasp.

But had he?

Had Thomas Everett truly survived?

And if he had, why had he never returned?

Eleanor looked up at Mr. Whitmore, determination settling in her bones.

"I need to know what happened to him."

The caretaker nodded slowly.

"Then you must go where the letters stopped reaching."

Eleanor frowned. "Where was that?"

He handed her an old envelope—one of Lillian’s own letters, addressed but never sent.

A small coastal town in England.

Where Thomas Everett had vanished into history.