Speaker 1: Us was to be ours, the final letter.
Speaker 2: Alister sat at his desk by the window. The light
Speaker 2: was fading, the way it always did in late afternoon,
Speaker 2: turning the room soft and gold. His pen was in
Speaker 2: his hand and a stack of blank paper sat before him.
Speaker 2: He had been sitting here for an hour, thinking about
Speaker 2: what to say. This would be his last letter. He
Speaker 2: was eighty seven years old. His body was tired, not
Speaker 2: in pain, but in the way a tree is tired
Speaker 2: at the end of a long season, its branches heavy
Speaker 2: with fruit. He had lived a full life, and he
Speaker 2: knew it. He had loved deeply, worked hard, and seen
Speaker 2: the world change in ways he could never have imagined.
Speaker 2: But there was one thing left to do. One letter
Speaker 2: he needed to write, and he wanted to get it right.
Speaker 2: The letter was for his granddaughter Clara. She was twenty three,
Speaker 2: now living in a city three hours away, working at
Speaker 2: a job she loved. He was proud of her, more
Speaker 2: than she knew. But he had never told her the
Speaker 2: full story of his life, not in the way he
Speaker 2: wanted to. He had told her pieces, fragments, stories at
Speaker 2: bedtime when she was small, but now he wanted to
Speaker 2: put it all together, to give her something she could
Speaker 2: hold in her hands. When he was gone, he dipped
Speaker 2: his pen in the ink and began to write. My
Speaker 2: dearest Clara, I am writing this letter to you on
Speaker 2: a Tuesday evening in October. The light is doing that
Speaker 2: thing it does in autumn, turning everything gold and soft.
Speaker 2: The maple tree outside my window is the color of fire,
Speaker 2: and I can hear the wind moving through its branches.
Speaker 2: I have been thinking about you all day, about the
Speaker 2: day you were born, and about all the days since.
Speaker 2: I want to tell you about my life, not because
Speaker 2: it was extraordinary, but because it was mine, and because
Speaker 2: I want you to know where you come from. I
Speaker 2: was born in a small house by the river, the
Speaker 2: same house where I live now. My father was a
Speaker 2: carpenter and my mother was a school teacher. They were
Speaker 2: quiet people, the kind who spoke more with their hands
Speaker 2: than with their voices. My father taught me to build things,
Speaker 2: to measure twice and cut once. My mother taught me
Speaker 2: to read, and she read to me every night until
Speaker 2: I was old enough to read to myself. I met
Speaker 2: your grandmother when I was twenty one. She was standing
Speaker 2: in the rain outside the post office, waiting for the
Speaker 2: mail to be sorted. I had an umbrella, and I
Speaker 2: shared it with her. We stood there for twenty minutes,
Speaker 2: talking about nothing and everything. By the time the rain stopped,
Speaker 2: I knew I would marry her. We were married in
Speaker 2: the spring, in the garden behind this house. The roses
Speaker 2: were blooming, and the air smelled of rain and earth.
Speaker 2: She wore a blue dress, not white, because she said
Speaker 2: white was for people who were nervous, and she was
Speaker 2: not nervous at all.
Speaker 1: She was right.
Speaker 2: We were married for fifty three years, and not once
Speaker 2: did I feel uncertain about it. We had two children,
Speaker 2: your father and your aunt. They were loud and messy
Speaker 2: and wonderful. The house was always full of noise, of laughter,
Speaker 2: of arguments about nothing. I loved every moment of it.
Speaker 2: I did not know then how quickly it would pass,
Speaker 2: how the years would slip through my fingers like water.
Speaker 2: Your grandmother died seven years ago. It was quiet, the
Speaker 2: way she wanted it. She was in her bed by
Speaker 2: the window, and I was holding her hand. She looked
Speaker 2: at me and said, I am not afraid, and then
Speaker 2: she closed her eyes and she was gone. I have
Speaker 2: lived alone since then, but I have not been lonely.
Speaker 2: The house is full of her, full of the life
Speaker 2: we built together. I can hear her in the kitchen,
Speaker 2: can see her in the garden, can feel her in
Speaker 2: the way the light falls through the wind. She is everywhere,
Speaker 2: and I am grateful for that. I am telling you this, Clara,
Speaker 2: because I want you to know that a life is
Speaker 2: not made of big moments. It is made of small ones.
Speaker 2: It is made of mornings with coffee, and evenings with books,
Speaker 2: of walks in the rain, and conversations that last for hours.
Speaker 2: It is made of the people you love and the
Speaker 2: way you love them, and the memories you build together.
Speaker 2: You are part of that life. You are one of
Speaker 2: the best parts. The day you were born, I held
Speaker 2: you in my arms and looked at your face, and
Speaker 2: I thought, here is someone who will change the world.
Speaker 2: Not because you will do something famous or important, but
Speaker 2: because you will be kind and brave and true to yourself.
Speaker 2: I do not know how much time I have left.
Speaker 2: It does not matter. What matters is this. I have
Speaker 2: loved you since the moment I knew you existed. I
Speaker 2: have loved watching you grow, learning who you are, seeing
Speaker 2: the world through your eyes. I have loved every phone call,
Speaker 2: every visit, every letter you have sent me. I want
Speaker 2: you to know that I am not afraid. I have
Speaker 2: had a good life, a full life, a life filled
Speaker 2: with love. And when I am gone, I will still
Speaker 2: be with you. I will be in the stories I
Speaker 2: have told you, in the lessons I have taught you,
Speaker 2: in the quiet moments. When you think of me and smile,
Speaker 2: you do not need to be sad for me. Be happy,
Speaker 2: live fully, love deeply. And when you think of me,
Speaker 2: think of the good times, Think of the laughter, the stories,
Speaker 2: the quiet evenings by the window, Think of the way
Speaker 2: I used to read to you, and the way you
Speaker 2: would fall asleep in my arms. I love you, Clara,
Speaker 2: I have always loved you. I will always love you.
Speaker 2: Your grand father Alister. He set down the pen and
Speaker 2: read the letter through. His hand was steady and the
Speaker 2: words were clear. He folded the paper carefully and placed
Speaker 2: it in an envelope. On the front, he wrote, for Clara,
Speaker 2: when the time is right. He placed the envelope in
Speaker 2: the drawer of his desk, next to the photograph of
Speaker 2: your grandmother and the small wooden box where he kept
Speaker 2: his most precious things. He closed the drawer and sat
Speaker 2: back in his chair. The room was darker now, the
Speaker 2: light from the window turning purple and deep blue. He
Speaker 2: could hear the wind outside and the faint sound of
Speaker 2: a dog barking somewhere down the street. The house was quiet,
Speaker 2: but it was a good quiet, the kind that feels
Speaker 2: full rather than empty. He reached for the blanket draped
Speaker 2: over the arm of his chair and pulled it over
Speaker 2: his lap. He was tired, the kind of tire that
Speaker 2: comes after a long journey, when you can finally sit
Speaker 2: down and rest. He closed his eyes and thought about Clara,
Speaker 2: about the letter in the drawer, about all the words
Speaker 2: he had put on paper. He thought about his grandmother
Speaker 2: and the rain and the umbrella. He thought about the
Speaker 2: wedding and the roses and the blue dress. He thought
Speaker 2: about his children and their noise and their laughter. He
Speaker 2: thought about all the years, stacked up like books on
Speaker 2: a shelf, each one full of stories. He smiled. The
Speaker 2: house was warm, the blanket was soft. Outside. The wind
Speaker 2: whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of autumn, of change,
Speaker 2: of things ending and beginning. At the same time, he
Speaker 2: let his breathing slow, let his thoughts drift. The letter
Speaker 2: was written, The words were safe, Clara would read them
Speaker 2: some day, and she would know. She would know that
Speaker 2: she was loved, that she came from love, that love
Speaker 2: was the thread that connected all the stories of his life.
Speaker 2: The room was dark now, but it did not matter.
Speaker 2: He was not afraid. He had written his final letter,
Speaker 2: and it was good. Sleep came like a tide, soft
Speaker 2: and sure, carrying him gently into the quiet of the night.