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I sat with the old, yellowed envelope in my hand — untouched for years.
My fingers trembled, not because of the cold, but because of the memory it held.
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I had written that letter to my father the night I left home — a young boy, angry, misunderstood, and broken. I never posted it.
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Now, standing at his grave, I read it aloud.
"I hated you for not understanding me. But I never thanked you for the silent sacrifices. I saw your tired eyes every night. I heard your voice choke every time you told me to be strong."
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Tears blurred the ink.
"I wanted to become better — not to prove you wrong, but to prove you right."
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The wind whispered through the trees as if he was listening.
And for the first time in years, my heart felt a little less heavy.
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Some letters don’t need to be sent. They just need to be read — even if only by the soul they were meant for.
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