The Last Letter: : Chapter 7: Letters Across Time

Eleanor sat in Helen’s quiet home, staring at the two unsent letters resting on the table before her. One written by Lillian, lost in an attic for over a century. The other written by Thomas, hidden away in regret. Two souls who had loved each other, yet never found their way back.

A storm brewed in her mind. What was she supposed to do now? Their love had faded into history, locked away in ink. But something inside her refused to let that be the end.

Helen watched her carefully. “You’re not just here for answers,” she said. “You want to make sure they’re heard, don’t you?”

Eleanor swallowed hard. She hadn’t even spoken the thought aloud, but Helen had seen right through her. “I think they deserve that,” she admitted.

Helen nodded slowly. “Then tell their story.”

That night, Eleanor sat by the window of her motel, watching the sea stretch into the horizon. She imagined Thomas, standing on this very shore, staring into the waves, wondering if Lillian had moved on—or if she still held onto hope.

Lillian had held on.

But Thomas had never sent his letter.

And Lillian had never received hers.

But what if she had?

Eleanor suddenly knew what she had to do.

She would send Thomas’s letter to Lillian’s final resting place.

The next morning, Eleanor packed her bags and drove back to the Hastings estate. The caretaker, Mr. Whitmore, greeted her at the door, a knowing look in his eyes.

“You found him,” he said simply.

Eleanor nodded. “I did. And I found something else. Something that belongs to Lillian.”

She stepped forward, handing him the aged envelope—the one Thomas had never sent.

“I think she deserves to have this now.”

Mr. Whitmore held the letter gently, running his fingers over the ink. He didn’t ask questions. He simply understood.

“I’ll place it where she rests,” he said softly. “Where she waited all those years.”

Eleanor exhaled, a weight she hadn’t realized she was carrying lifting off her chest.

The letters had finally reached their destinations.

More than a hundred years late—but finally, the silence between them had been broken.