Whispers of the Past: Unveiling Old Letters

Old letters

When the postman stopped climbing the stairs and began leaving the newspapers and envelopes in the hallway, MrsAnne Bennett first complained. Then she made peace with it. From then on her mornings began with a slow descent down the narrow stairwell, fingers gripping the cool banister, and a glance into the old green letterbox with its crooked 12 painted on the side.

The box dated back to the late80s, its paint flaking, its number skewed. It creaked every time it was opened, and Anne imagined the day it would finally give way, leaving her without a place to receive Evelyns letters.

The letters arrived at irregular intervalssometimes after a week, sometimes after a monthbut they always came. A narrow envelope, a tidy slanted script, the faint scent of cheap perfume. Anne would climb back up, set the kettle on the hob, sit at the kitchen table and slit the envelope along the seam, careful not to tear the paper.

Evelyn lived in another city, a thousand kilometres away in York. Once they had shared a single dormitory at the medical school, crammed together over anatomy textbooks and a single tin of corned beef. Then Evelyn married, started a family; Anne took a job at the local GP surgery, married late, had a daughter. Their lives drifted apart, but the thin, sturdy thread of their letters kept them from unraveling.

Evelyn wrote about her cottage garden, about a neighbour who kept planting the wrong tomatoes, about a son who couldnt bring himself to leave his perpetually complaining wife. She wrote about blood pressure that jumps like a goat and about new pills the doctor had prescribed. Between the lines the old Evelyn shone throughplayful, stubborn, with a bite of sarcasm.

Anne answered in the evening, when the flat grew quiet. Her daughter lived elsewhere, her grandson visited on weekends. The weekdays were filled only with the ticking of the clock, the humming lift in the wall, and the rustle of her pen on paper. She described the surgery where she still worked parttime as a therapist, the neighbours forever squabbling over parking, her grandson who had become an IT bloke and spoke in riddles.

She loved the ritual: a clean sheet, a straight line, a mental calendar, deciding what to share with Evelyn and what to keep hidden. Each letter felt like a small evening reckoning. She wrote slowly, savoring each word as if she could hear Evelyns voice reading them.

One afternoon her grandson, Harry, burst in with a box in his hands.

Grandma, he said, pulling out a sleek new phone, time to ditch that ancient buttoncell. Were in the twentyfirst century now.

Am I still living in the Victorian era? Anne replied, but she took the device anyway. It was thin, heavy, glasscovered, and even holding it made her uneasywhat if she dropped it and ruined Harrys stipend?

Its simple, Harry swiped, and the screen lit up with bright squares. This is a messenger. You can type, you can send voice notes, you can flash pictures instantly.

Isnt good old post enough? Anne smirked, a spark of curiosity glinting in her eyes.

Post is lovely when you get a postcard from Brighton, Harry said. But with this you could chat with Evelyn every day.

He already knew about Evelyn. Anne sometimes read pieces of her letters aloud to him. Harry chuckled, What a cool friend youve got. He decided Evelyn should get a taste of modern convenience too.

Only Evelyn, Anne winced, searching for the right words, doesnt use a phone. She still has that ancient clicker.

Does she have any grandchildren? Harry asked.

A granddaughter, Lucy. Shes at university.

Right then, Harry declared. Write Evelyn a letter asking Lucy to help. Ill set everything up for you.

He placed the phone on the table, plugged it in, entered a few details. Anne watched the glow of the screen, the progress bars racing, feeling both foolish and excited.

That evening she sat at the table as usual, but now a silent phone lay beside the paper, its display showing the time and the weather. She took the envelope, addressed it to Evelyn, and after a pause added at the bottom:

Evelyn, Harry bought me a new phone, says I can send letters through it now. If Lucy is around, let her have a look. Maybe well both learn a thing or two. Im an old cat, after all.

She smiled, sealed the envelope, and the next morning dropped it into the communal letterbox by the front door, not her little green box but the large one with a slot for letters.

Two weeks later Evelyn wrote back:

Youre behind the times, love, but Im even further behind. Lucy giggles, says anythings possible. She stopped by this weekend, showed me on her phone how it works. So go on, Anne, surprise me. Lucy said shell set everything up when I get to her town. She might even come herself. Imagine, Ill be texting like the youngsters.

Anne laughed. The same mischievous spark Evelyn had when they once learned to ride a motorbike together flickered through the words.

A month later Harry returned, sat beside her and patiently demonstrated the taps and swipes.

Heres the chat, he said. First Ill add myself, well practice.

He typed a couple of lines, the phone chimed softly, the screen flared, and Anne shivered.

Dont be scared, thats just a notification. Tap here.

She pressed and saw the words: Hi Grandma! This is a test. Below was a blank line.

Write your reply here, Harry instructed, pointing at the letters.

Her fingers trembled. She typed slowly: Hi. I see but a typo turned see into sie. Harry laughed, then quickly corrected it, erasing the mistake and showing the proper way.

By evening she could open the chat on her own, type a short phrase, and hit send. Voice notes still unnerved her, but Harry promised they could come later.

At the start of autumn Evelyn appeared in the messenger from an unknown number: Anne, its me. Evelyn. Lucy set it up. Greetings from our little swamp.

Anne stared at the screen, feeling as if Evelyn were suddenly right there, not a thousand kilometres away but just beyond the hallway wall. She typed: Evelyn! I see you, well, I read you. How are you? and sent it, holding her breath.

A reply arrived in a minuteunusual, almost startling.

Im alive. Blood pressure is playing tricks, but Im not scared. You? Is Harry driving you mad with his gadgets?

She laughed and wrote about Harry, about the surgery, about the neighbour forever arguing with the housing office. Her fingers stumbled, letters sometimes forming odd words, but Evelyn understood. Occasionally Evelyn capped her messages with a yellow smiley face.

This is a smiley, Harry explained, peeking over her shoulder. It means you know, happy.

Anne nodded, deciding to skip the emojis; they felt foreign, like a language she didnt speak. Yet when Evelyn sent a particularly sharp joke, her hand reached instinctively for the little grin.

Their exchange quickened. In the morning Anne checked the phone as she once checked the letterbox. At lunch, between patients, she stole glances at the screen to read Evelyns latest. In the evening they could trade a dozen quick lines.

The speed was strangejoyous and unnerving together. What once stretched over weeks now fit into a handful of sentences. She didnt even notice the time passing before she sent another reply.

One day Evelyn wrote:

Can you imagine? My neighbour at the cottage is flirting. Old codger, but his eyes still sparkle. He came with apples yesterday, saying lets have tea together. I told him my blood pressure wont let me get excited.

Anne frowned, recalling Evelyns loneliness. She typed back:

Make sure he doesnt sit on your neck. Youll never get rid of him then. Theyre all like that. She hit send without rereading.

A swift reply came:

Thanks for thinking Im a spry seventysomething. Ill manage.

Anne felt a sting inside, a sudden sharpness. She wanted to write: Im just worried, but stopped. The screen glowed with Evelyns last line, lacking a smiley.

Later that night another message arrived:

And you seem to enjoy watching me fail.

Annes cheeks flushed. She set the phone down, walked to the kitchen, poured tea, and let the silence fill the room. Her mind buzzed. Was she really cheering at Evelyns misfortunes?

Back at the table she opened the chat again. Her fingers trembled as she typed:

Youre wrong. I fear for you, for me. I fear Ill be left without you. Thats no excuse. Lets agree: you tell me everything, I think, then write. At least a minute.

She added a tiny smiling face, hunting through the icons until she found the right one, feeling both foolish and lighter.

Evelyns reply was short: Agreed. A minute of thought is a revolution for you. Proud of you. Write me letters, dont quit. And on the messenger well chatter about the little things, like schoolgirls in a dorm.

Anne burst out laughing, hearing Evelyns voice in her head, that unmistakable tone.

That evening she fetched a fresh envelope, placed it on the table beside the phonetwo different ways to speak to the same person. She wrote about the surgery, about the chief doctor trying to schedule weekend shifts, about the neighbour downstairs finally finishing her leaky ceiling repairs, about a dream where they ran through the dorm corridors in gowns.

When the letter was finished, she photographed it with the phone and sent the picture in the chat.

Heres a spoiler. The rest will come by post, she captioned.

Evelyn replied almost instantly:

Youre teasing. Now Ill await both letters and envelopes. My heart cant handle that intrigue.

She added: Lucy says she can send a voice note, but Im shy. What if I say the wrong thing?

Anne thought a moment, then typed:

Send whatever you like. If needed, we can pretend the line dropped.

A few minutes later a voice note arrived. Anne pressed play.

Well then, Evelyns hoarse but familiar voice said, here I am, the star of the airwaves. They say I almost died, but I think I just rested, took a break from you all. Dont cry. Ill outlive you. I have plans. I need to sort out that neighbour. Let someone look after me, not the doctors.

Anne listened, feeling the tension of recent weeks melt away. Evelyn was alive, still the same stubborn, laughing woman.

She tapped the microphone icon, heart pounding.

Evelney, she began, trying to steady her voice, if you outlive me, I wont forgive you. And about the neighbour if he starts bringing apples every day, tell me honestly. Ill come and give you both a proper talkingto.

She released the button, a little frightened by what shed said, but it was too late. The message flew off.

A minute later Evelyn typed:

I hear you and think: were like two schoolgirls, afraid someone will abandon us, yet no one has forgotten us. Even your grandson, who now teaches me how to place those little faces.

Another line followed:

Lets do this: when Im in hospital or feeling poorly, you write paper letters. Theyre slow but warm. When Im fine, we chat here, but not every five minutes, or Ill tire you out.

Anne felt a calm settle in her chest. Simple rules, clear and understood. No midnight calls, no demands for instant replies, no grudges if the other is busy. And a shared certainty that somewhere, across the screen, the other was reading her words.

She typed back:

Deal. And if you ever want tea with anyone, dont ask me first. I can only grumble. I cant live your life for you.

Evelyn sent a winking smiley and wrote:

Thats the spirit. Ill note it and listen when I start to falter.

Autumn slipped into winter. Evelyn was discharged from the hospital but complained of weakness. She sometimes vanished for a day or two. Anne no longer panicked at every silence; she recalled their agreement, took out a notebook, wrote a paper letter, sealed it, and dropped it into the hallway box.

The phone rested nearby, another conduit to her friend. Sometimes they argued over the recipe for pickled cucumbers, sometimes over the news. One day Evelyn sent a picture of her neighbour: a silverhaired man in a knitted hat, clutching a bag of apples.

Thats the hero of our novel, she captioned.

Anne studied the photo, the mans face tired yet kind, and wrote:

Nothing much, just hope hes not greedy.

Evelyn replied:

Oh, who would think. Thats the woman who, fifty years ago, shared a tin of corned beef with me and counted how many pieces each of us got.

Anne laughed, remembering the night in the dormitory when they ate that tin and talked about what life would look like at seventy. Back then it seemed a distant fantasy.

Now they were both in their seventies, each in her own flat, with a phone and a stack of envelopes. The world had changed, but the thin thread between them still stretched taut.

One evening, as the kitchen lamp flickered low under the cupboard, the phone vibrated softly. Anne lifted it, saw a new message from Evelyn.

Anne, Ive been thinking. If Im ever gone, dont rummage through my phone and read my chats with the neighbour. Its only apples and blood pressure. And seriously thank you for being there, even when we annoy each other.

Anne stared at the lines, then typed slowly:

I wont pry. And if Im gone first, please dont dig up my old letters to find where I was wrong. Just remember I loved you, always. Ill never stop loving you.

She hit send and felt a weight lift from her chest, as if both had finally voiced the unspoken.

Evelyns reply arrived after a few minutes, a single word: Agreed.

Anne set the phone aside, walked to the window. Outside, streetlights glowed, a few late walkers hurrying home. Below, the communal letterbox stood in shadow. She knew tomorrow she would walk down the stairs again with another envelope, and that night she would glance at the small screen, waiting for a quick Where are you? or a longer, laughterfilled voice note.

The world had become a little more tangled. She could no longer hide behind the slow pace of the post or the distance between cities. Words now flew fast, sometimes cutting, sometimes soothing. Yet support arrived just as swiftly. A simple I feel a bit down today would be answered within minutes with a quip about criticizing the government.

She smiled, remembering the conversation, and returned to the table. On the cloth lay a fresh sheet of paper and, beside it, the phone. Anne picked up her pen, then reached for the phone and typed to Evelyn:

Im writing you a letter. Dont peek.

The screen instantly flashed back:

Too late. I already know everything. Still waiting, though, for both letters and you.

Anne read those words and sensed that in this blend of old paper rustle and digital ping lay something solid. Like the steps of the staircase they both climbed together, sometimes stumbling, sometimes steady.

She set the date at the top of the page, wrote the first line of greeting, and the phone glowed quietly beside her. In that flicker and those steady lines of ink lived their friendshipnew in form, but as stubborn and alive as ever.