I walked into the kitchen, the morning light slanting through the window, casting long shadows on the floor. There, on the dining table, a stack of unopened letters sat next to my breakfast, the aroma of coffee mingling with the air. A note from my wife, her handwriting familiar and reassuring, said she had to leave early for work. I reached for the top letter, the handwriting sparking a flicker of recognition. My mother’s handwriting. She’d been gone for years, yet here was a letter from her, dated a year before her death, lost in the postal labyrinth all this time. As I opened it, nostalgia washed over me, her voice emerging from the ink, soothing, advising, as if she were speaking from beyond. She asked me to visit the family park, the place of countless childhood memories. I ate quickly, heart pounding, grabbed my keys, and drove, each mile filled with echoes of laughter, her smile. The park stood quiet, the crawl tunnel still there, our special spot. I crouched, half expecting her presence, finding instead another letter. My name on it, her handwriting. I opened it: “I’m proud of you. Keep being the person you are.” Tears blurred my vision as I realized she had orchestrated this, knowing I would find these letters when I needed them most.