Letter from Mark to Nora

Dear Nora,

I read your letter again tonight. The edges have begun to curl, and the ink has faded in some parts, but your words still breathe. Funny, isn’t it? How paper lasts longer than people do. I don’t know why I kept it all these years — maybe because it was the only thing that ever felt unfinished, and I have always lived inside unfinished things.

The rain has been steady these past few days. It reminded me of the afternoon you left — the sound of it against the window, the faint smell of coffee gone cold, the silence that followed when you said goodbye. I thought I would get used to that silence. I never did.

You once said that you wrote because it was the only way to tell the truth without breaking. I understand that now. Teaching, grading, watching the young come and go — it does something to a man. It teaches him how much can be lost simply by staying still. I tried to move on, Nora. I really did. But there are moments when a line from one of your old essays appears in my mind, and I wonder if you ever found the life you were writing toward.

I am older now — slower, quieter. I don’t write much anymore. Perhaps I am afraid of what might come out if I do. The last time I wrote, it was about memory, about how it lingers not because it is precious, but because it is unfinished. Like the way you left. Like the way I stayed.

I did marry, Nora. Not because I stopped thinking of you, but because life kept moving even when my heart wanted to stay. There are mornings when I still remember the sound of your voice, not in sadness, but in gratitude for what we once had. My wife is kind, and our days are peaceful. But sometimes, peace carries its own kind of ache.

Sometimes, when I pass by the sea, I think of how you once said that everything beautiful must move. You were right. The sea moves, people move, time moves — only memory stays, quietly repeating names no one answers to anymore. 

If this letter somehow finds its way to you, I don’t expect an answer. Some stories end quietly, not with closure, but with acceptance. I only wanted to say that your leaving taught me something I never learned from books — that love, in its truest form, is not about staying, but about allowing both of us to go on living.

So wherever you are, I hope you have found peace in your own kind of silence. I have mine too, though it came late. Still, every time it rains, I hear the faint echo of your laughter in the distance, and for a moment, I am grateful — that once, our lives touched, however briefly, and that it was enough.

In quiet remembrance,

 Mark