🟫 Part 9 – Your Voice at the End
The house had grown quieter since the snow began.
Not silent—just softer.
The kind of hush that blankets old wood and tired memories.
Elena sat near the fireplace, the quilt across her knees, a mug of tea cupped in her hands.
She wasn’t searching anymore.
Not really.
But when she opened the final drawer of her father’s old writing desk, tucked beneath yellowed tax forms and paperclips, she found it.
A plain manila folder, sealed with a single strip of masking tape.
On the cover: typed neatly, with one line underlined.
“Your Voice at the End”
She stared at the title for a long time.
There was something about it that felt final.
Heavy.
Sacred.
She didn’t open it right away.
She lit the fire instead. Let the first log catch. Let the quiet settle around her again.
Then, with both hands, she peeled back the tape and opened the folder.
Inside were two pages.
Typed.
But there was also a cassette tucked between them.
She picked up the first page and began to read.
“Elena,
I know this letter may be the last one you read. And if it is, I hope it finds you in a moment of peace, not pain.This isn’t a letter about regrets. I’ve written enough of those.
This one is about your voice.”
She paused.
Outside, the wind tapped gently at the window.
The fireplace hissed, shifted, sighed.
She continued reading.
“I don’t remember when the pain started. Not exactly.
Just that it crept in slow—like the cold through a cracked window.
Some mornings, I’d wake up and forget what day it was. Other mornings, I’d remember everything and wish I hadn’t.But then you called.
It wasn’t anything dramatic. Just a voicemail.
You said, ‘Hey Dad, just checking in. Soup’s on the stove if you feel like company.’And something in me softened.”
Elena sat straighter. She remembered that call.
It had been one of the few times she hadn’t expected him to answer.
She just wanted him to know she was there.
She’d almost deleted the message after she left it, thinking it sounded too simple. Too small.
But he’d heard it.
“I didn’t know then that it would be the last time I heard your voice and understood every word.
But I did.And that night, I sat in the chair by the window, turned on the cassette recorder, and tried to explain how it felt.
Not dying.
But being ready.Because somehow, your voice made it okay.”
Her hand trembled as she picked up the tape.
She turned toward the old player she’d left on the counter.
Slid the cassette in.
Pressed play.
Click.
A bit of static.
Then his voice—grainy, but unmistakable.
“Hey, birdie.
If this tape’s still working, I must’ve done something right.”Pause. Breathing. A throat clear.
“Tonight, the house smells like rain and paper.
The typewriter’s quiet. Your photo’s next to the lamp. And I’m tired.
But not afraid.”Pause.
“You said the soup’s on. I didn’t come.
But I heard you.
And that was enough.”Long breath. Slight laugh.
“I used to think dying would feel like falling.
But I think it’s just… a letting go.
Like stepping into warm water after a long, cold day.”Silence.
“You gave me that warmth, Elena.
You gave me peace.”
The tape ended with a faint click.
Elena didn’t move.
Not for a minute.
Not for five.
She just sat, tears slipping down without urgency, like they’d been waiting their turn.
She turned the tape over in her hand.
There was something handwritten on the label:
“Not Goodbye – Just Quiet.”
She smiled.
A small, sad, perfect smile.
Then she stood, returned to the attic, and fed a new page into the typewriter.
Her fingers rested on the keys like old friends.
“Dear Dad,
I wish I had known that call mattered.
I wish I had known you listened.But I think maybe you did.
Maybe you always did.
Even when I wasn’t saying the right thing, you still heard what I meant.”
She continued slowly.
“I used to think closure would come like a door slamming shut.
But now I see—
It’s more like light filtering through the cracks.
Soft. Patient. Kind.”
She returned downstairs.
Pulled the quilt tighter.
Looked at the fire, now steady and strong.
She picked up the second page in the folder.
One line.
Typed.
“If there’s anything left of me in this world, I hope it’s in your kindness.”
Elena whispered aloud:
“It is.”
Continue Reading 🟫 Part 10 – The Last Letter Left Behind
