In a quiet village nestled between green hills and winding paths, lived an old postman named Hari. For over forty years, he walked the same dusty roads, delivering more than just letters—he delivered news of births, deaths, love, forgiveness, and everything in between. People trusted him, not only for his reliability but because Hari carried their emotions carefully, like fragile treasures.But among the thousands of letters he’d delivered, there was one that haunted him—one letter that he had never delivered.It arrived every year, like clockwork, on the 5th of October. A small, cream-colored envelope with careful handwriting. No return address.