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The Last Letter (Short novel)


In the moving short romantic book "The Last Letter," two long-lost lovers are reunited after fifty years thanks to an enigmatic letter. This heartwarming tale of love, set in a stunning rose garden, will leave you feeling hopeful and moved. For those who enjoy eternal connections and second-chance romance, this short story is ideal.

1. In her ivy-wrapped home in the sleepy town of Elmswood, where the postman still walked his route and fog kissed the windows every morning, lived 76-year-old Clara Whitmore alone. The scent of paper and ink still clings to her like perfume, reminding her of her previous job as a librarian. Even though she hadn't received a letter in years, she still made the trip to the mailbox at the end of her garden path every morning. However, something changed on March 3. In her mailbox, there was a lone, pale blue envelope. In exquisite handwriting she hadn't seen in more than half a century, her name was scrawled. "Clara Whitmore"

2. She opened it, her hands shaking.  Greetings, Clara  I've finally worked up the confidence to write you this letter.  I apologize for departing silently.  I still love you.  One more time, if you still recall the vow we made, meet me where the roses grow.  For you, Henry.  For a long time, Clara sat on the porch swing.  Henry.  Her name is Henry.  It was in 1969 when they fell in love.  She was a timid librarian, and he was a mobile painter.  For a single summer, books and brushes, longing and laughter, were linked.  They were going to run away.

3. He disappeared, however, one morning.  No letter.  No good-bye.  For years, she believed he had moved on.  Wedded.  passed away.  forgot about her.  This now?  In the same afternoon, she packed her bag.

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4. It was still the rose field, behind the old Whitaker barn, right over the river. Wild with memories, it was overgrown. When she got there, the sun was already setting. Nobody was present. The wooden bench under the willow tree was where Clara sat. The petals rustled in the breeze. With her pulse pounding with both terror and hope, she gripped the letter. “Clara?” It was unquestionably his voice, albeit faint and cracked with time. She spun around. He stood with his cane in hand, his eyes the same stormy blue, his hair silver. He continued, "I thought you wouldn't come," as he began to cry. "I pretty much didn't," she muttered. Henry, why now?

5. He sat next to her, slowly and cautiously. The week before our scheduled departure, I was drafted. I was allowed two hours to pack. Though I was hurt, I had intended to write from abroad. In a coma for a year. I was unable to recall anything for months when I woke up. When I finally did, I was scared you had moved on. "Henry, fifty years," she murmured, her voice cracking. "I have always loved you. From recollection, I painted you in every location where I resided. I went looking for you. However, Elmswood was so little that it was never depicted on my maps. Silently, they sat till the sky turned gold and orange.

6. “I had a near marriage once,” Clara remarked. But I was never able to. My heart was still clinging to somebody. A second letter, ancient and yellowed, was taken out of Henry's coat. In 1971, when I first recalled your name, I composed this for you. For years, I carried it. However, I couldn't locate you. She handled it delicately. They conversed as if they were twenty again while they waited until the stars appeared.

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7. A Year Later A field of flowers under a luminous sky is the painting that two elderly artists placed in the neighborhood café in Elmswood. It was next to a little plaque that said: > Honoring Lost Time—And the Will to Start Over. — Whitmore C. and Ellis H. Now, the two of them shared the cottage. The mailbox was no longer vacant. Each morning, Henry would bring her coffee along with a fresh letter that started, "Dear Clara, I never stopped loving you."

THE END

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