Every month, the little girl walked to the mailbox carrying a handwritten letter.
Always the same envelope.
Always the same address.
Always the same careful handwriting.
The mail carrier eventually noticed something strange.
The address didn’t exist anymore.
It hadn’t existed for years.
Yet the letters kept coming.
One afternoon, he gently asked who she was writing to.
The girl smiled proudly.
“My grandma.”
The mail carrier froze.
Because according to local records…
her grandmother had died five years earlier.
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The girl’s grandmother had helped raise her.
They baked together.
Read stories together.
Shared every birthday together.
When the grandmother died, the little girl struggled to understand.
She was too young.
Too confused.
Too heartbroken.
One day her mother suggested writing letters whenever she missed her.
The idea worked.
Every month the girl wrote another.
About school.
Friends.
Birthdays.
Dreams.
The letters were never mailed.
At least, that was the plan.
But the little girl secretly posted every single one.
For years.
When the mail carrier discovered this, he couldn’t bring himself to throw them away.
Instead, he stored them in a box.
Hundreds of letters.
Years later, on the girl’s eighteenth birthday, he returned them all.
Together.
The box weighed almost twenty pounds.
The young woman cried for hours reading conversations she had forgotten she ever wrote.
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