The Letters We Never SentThe old oak desk was a time capsule of a life half-lived. Arthur had bought it for its deep, spacious drawers, perfect for holding his dreams. Now, sixty years later, it was being sold, and his granddaughter, Lily, was tasked with clearing it out.She found them in the bottom drawer, tucked beneath faded blueprints and old accounting ledgers. Not one or two, but dozens. Hundreds. Neat stacks of envelopes, all addressed in her grandfather’s elegant cursive to a woman named Eleanor Shaw. None of them had ever been stamped or mailed.Curled on the dusty floorboards, Lily