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. No stamp. Just two names written in cursive:
To Meera, from Aarav.
Inside, the message never changed. Just two words, written in shaky ink:
“I’m sorry. –A”
No one in the village knew a Meera. Hari asked around in his early years. He checked records, old school rolls, even walked to the next town. Nothing. No one remembered a woman named Meera who might have lived there. It was as if she had been erased by time. But the letters kept coming.
Hari kept each one in a wooden drawer inside his tiny post office, unopened and undelivered. He couldn’t bear to throw them away. There was something sacred in that ritual—something unfinished.
As his retirement approached, Hari began to feel the weight of those undelivered words. He had spent a lifetime connecting people, and yet, one connection remained broken.
On his last day of duty, instead of attending the village’s farewell celebration in his honor, Hari put on his faded postman’s cap, took the latest letter, and walked alone to the edge of the forest. There, half-hidden behind vines and time, stood an old crumbling house. The villagers called it cursed. No one had lived there in years.
Hari had always felt a strange pull toward it. Something about its silence felt familiar. As the wind rustled through broken windows and ivy-covered walls, Hari stepped forward and gently placed the letter on the cracked doorstep.
He whispered, “Wherever you are, Meera, this is yours.”
That night, a fierce storm swept through the village. Lightning struck a tree near the old house, and by morning, it had collapsed completely.
A few days later, curious villagers walked by the ruins. There was nothing left but stones, wildflowers… and a strange absence. The letter was gone.
Hari never spoke of it again. He retired peacefully, spending his days tending to his garden and feeding the birds.
But on the 5th of October the following year, and every year after, a new envelope would arrive at the post office. No return address. Just five words on a clean white page:
“Thank you. –M”
And though no one could explain it, Hari would always smile, fold the letter, and place it gently into that same wooden drawer.
Because some messages aren’t meant to be understood.
They’re just meant to be felt.Years passed, and the legend of the undelivered letter became part of the village’s quiet folklore. Children whispered about Meera, and old-timers nodded with knowing smiles. But Hari never confirmed nor denied the mystery. He simply sat on his wooden porch each year, tea in hand, eyes on the road—as if waiting for someone only he could see. Sometimes, in the silence of dusk, a gentle breeze would carry the scent of jasmine through the air, Meera’s favorite flower, though no jasmine grew nearby. And in that moment, Hari would smile softly, knowing that some love stories never truly end.
