The Lost Letter | For Clara, From Henry

A STORY BY NASEER

The book had been sitting on the top shelf of Mrs. Ellery’s bookstore for years. Dust softened its navy-blue cover, and its spine sagged under the weight of time. Most customers never looked that high, but Mara always did. She liked the forgotten books — the ones that seemed to wait for someone patient enough to notice them.

It was a rainy Thursday when she pulled the book from the shelf. The shop smelled of old paper and cinnamon tea, and a storm rattled the windows. She tucked the book under her arm and found her usual corner near the radiator.

The first few pages were filled with penciled notes from some long-ago student, and when Mara reached the middle, something slipped out.

An envelope.

It was yellowed, the paper soft as fabric, the flap still sealed. On the front, in slanted handwriting:

“For Clara. If not me, then no one.”

Mara froze. It wasn’t addressed to her. It wasn’t hers to open. But the book had been bought and sold so many times, whoever Clara was… she was probably long gone.

Her hands itched. Curiosity got the better of her.

She slipped her finger under the brittle flap and unfolded the letter.

It was written in blue ink, the kind that bled slightly into paper:

Clara,
“If you are reading this, then I never dared to say it aloud. I loved you from the moment I saw you standing in the rain, laughing at the thunder. You were never mine, but I was always yours. If there is a chance — even the smallest chance — I will be waiting at the old pier on Saturday at dusk. If not, I’ll carry this silence until the end.”
Henry.

Mara read it twice. Her throat tightened. It was simple, clumsy even, but heartbreak pulsed in every word. Did Clara ever see it? Did Henry stand at the pier alone that evening, waiting for someone who never came?

The storm outside cracked, thunder rolling low, and she shivered.

She should put the letter back and forget it. That would be the respectful thing. But she couldn’t shake the image: a man in a worn coat, standing at the pier with the sun sinking behind him, hope flickering like a lantern against the dark.

The bookstore bell jingled as someone came in. Mara tucked the letter into her bag, almost guiltily.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. She lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The words looped in her head: “If not me, then no one.”

The next morning, against all sense, she found herself driving toward the coast. The old pier was still there, gray and splintered, gulls wheeling above it. No Henry, of course. Just the sea, endless and unbothered.

She stood at the edge, holding the letter, and whispered it aloud, as if reading it for Clara — or for Henry, wherever he ended up. The wind carried her voice away.

She didn’t know why it mattered so much. Maybe because she had her own words she’d never said, her own silences that weighed heavily.

She pressed the letter back into the book and left it on the bench near the pier, hoping someone else would find it. Maybe Clara. Maybe nobody.

But as she walked back to her car, the weight in her chest felt lighter.

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