THE LAST LETTER

Before the guns, there were birds in the trees, Before the smoke, there were flowers and bees. Before every road knew the sound of a boot, There were children who laughed in their worn little shoes. The mornings arrived with the rising sun, And nobody knew what the future would become. The baker unlocked his shop at eight, And neighbours would smile as they opened the gate. There were bicycles leaning against garden walls, And footballs bouncing beside schoolyard halls. There were mothers who hurried to finish their chores, And fathers who waved as they walked through the doors. The world was not perfect, but nobody cared. We had little money, but somehow we shared. A loaf of warm bread could brighten the day, And summer would chase all the grey clouds away. I was young then. Young enough to believe That the world would stay exactly As it had always been. I believed in tomorrow. I believed in the sun. I believed every story Would eventually be done. I believed that my father would always come home, That my mother would never have to sit alone. I believed that the roads would remain where they were, And that nothing could change what we knew to be sure. But certainty is a fragile thing. It can disappear Between one heartbeat And the next. I remember the day the radio spoke. The whole room became strangely still. My mother stopped washing the dishes. My father stopped reading the paper. Even the clock seemed louder. Tick. Tick. Tick. The voice from the radio was calm, but the words were not. There had been arguments. There had been warnings. There had been speeches and meetings and promises that peace would remain. But promises are sometimes only promises. My father lowered the newspaper. My mother looked at him. Neither of them spoke. Outside, a little boy was laughing as he chased a ball down the street. I remember wondering how the world could be falling apart while someone outside was still playing. Then my father said quietly, "War." Just one word. But it felt enormous. The word seemed to fill the room, crawl beneath the doors, and settle into every corner of the house. War. I had heard it before. In history books. In stories. In conversations between adults. But I had never understood it. Not really. To me, war had always belonged to another time, another place, another generation. It belonged to black-and-white photographs and dusty pages. It did not belong here. Not on our street. Not beside our school. Not in our home. But that night, the streets were quieter. The next morning, people spoke in whispers. The bakery still opened. The buses still travelled. The church bell still rang. But something had changed. People looked at one another differently. As though everyone was silently asking: What happens now? Nobody knew. And perhaps that was the scariest part. The days that followed became strange. Men disappeared from their ordinary jobs. Uniforms appeared where ordinary clothes had been. Posters went up on walls. Announcements filled the radio. Everywhere we went, there were reminders. The war had begun. And slowly, the world I knew began to disappear. The football field became quieter. The schoolyard lost some of its voices. The train station became crowded with people saying goodbye. Goodbye. I learned that word quickly. It was everywhere. Goodbye to fathers. Goodbye to brothers. Goodbye to sons. Goodbye to friends. Some people said it bravely. Some people cried. Some people smiled because they were afraid that if they stopped smiling, they would never start again. My father packed his things one evening. I watched from the doorway. He folded his clothes carefully. He checked his bag twice. He tried to make everything seem normal. But I knew. We all knew. My mother stood beside the window. She didn't say anything. Neither did I. There are moments when words become useless. This was one of them. My father finally turned toward me. He smiled. "Take care of your mother," he said. I nodded. I wanted to say something important. Something brave. Something that would make him stay. But all I managed was: "Come home." He looked at me for a long moment. Then he nodded. "I will." That night, I couldn't sleep. I listened to the rain against the window. I listened to the clock. Tick. Tick. Tick. And I wondered how many things could change before morning. I did not know then that those would be some of the last peaceful nights we would ever have. I did not know how long the war would last. I did not know how many letters would be written. I did not know how many names would become memories. I only knew one thing: My father had left. And for the first time in my life, tomorrow was something I was afraid of. The morning came too quickly. I woke before the sun, before the birds, before the town had remembered how to make its usual noise. For a moment, I forgot. Then I saw the bag beside the door. And I remembered everything. My father was already awake. He stood in the kitchen, wearing the clothes that no longer made him look like my father. They made him look like a soldier. I hated that. Not him. Never him. Just the uniform. It made everything real. My mother placed a cup on the table. "Tea?" My father nodded. Neither of us drank it. We simply sat there, watching the steam disappear. Outside, the sky was turning grey. The same sky. The same street. The same houses. But nothing felt the same. My father looked at me. "Come here." I walked toward him. He placed a hand on my shoulder. For a few seconds, neither of us moved. Then he hugged me. I held on tightly. I didn't want to let go. Because somewhere inside me, a terrible thought had appeared. What if this was the last time? I pushed the thought away. No. He had promised. He would come home. Promises mattered. Didn't they? My mother came over next. The three of us stood together in the little kitchen where we'd eaten hundreds of breakfasts, celebrated birthdays, argued over silly things, and laughed until our stomachs hurt. It suddenly seemed impossible that this ordinary room could hold such a huge goodbye. A knock came at the door. My father looked toward it. His time had come. He picked up his bag. My mother wiped her eyes. "Don't," my father whispered. She nodded. But the tears came anyway. Mine did too. We walked outside. The street was filled with people. Some were leaving. Some were watching. Some were hugging their families. Some stood completely still, as though moving would make the moment real. A vehicle waited near the end of the road. My father turned around one last time. He looked at our house. The little garden. The front window. The door. Everything he'd known. Everything he'd worked for. Everything he was leaving behind. Then he looked at us. He smiled. That smile has stayed with me. Even years later. Especially years later. He raised his hand. I raised mine. Then he walked away. One step. Then another. Then another. I counted them. I don't know why. Maybe because counting gave me something to do. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. He reached the vehicle. He turned around again. Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Then he climbed inside. The door closed. And just like that, he was gone. The vehicle began to move. My mother held my hand. We watched it disappear around the corner. Neither of us spoke. The street became empty. The morning continued. Somewhere, a bird began to sing. I almost laughed. How could a bird sing when my father had just left? How could the sun rise? How could people go to work? How could the world keep turning? But it did. That was the strange thing about war. The world outside did not stop just because yours had. Days passed. Then weeks. Letters arrived. My father wrote about ordinary things. The weather. The food. The people he had met. He never told us everything. I knew that. Mothers always know. And children know more than adults think. Still, his letters became treasures. I read every word. Sometimes twice. Sometimes five times. Sometimes I held the paper without reading it at all. Just knowing his handwriting was there made me feel less alone. I began writing back. I told him about school. About the garden. About the neighbour's dog that kept stealing vegetables. I told him Mother was doing well. That part wasn't always true. But I didn't want him worrying. I told him I missed him. That part was always true. Then, one afternoon, another announcement came over the radio. The war was growing. More people were needed. More towns were affected. More families were separated. The world seemed to be getting darker. My mother turned off the radio. "Enough," she whispered. That evening, I looked at my father's letters. There were six of them. Six pieces of paper. Six little pieces of him. I placed them carefully inside a wooden box. Then I wrote a letter of my own. Dear Dad, I don't know when you'll read this. I don't know where you are. But I wanted to tell you something. I remember. I remember the kitchen. I remember the rain. I remember you telling me to look after Mum. And I remember your promise. Come home. Please. I folded the letter. I put it beside the others. Then I closed the box. I thought that was the hardest goodbye I would ever have to say. I was wrong. Much later, I would learn that goodbye is not always one moment. Sometimes goodbye happens slowly. A letter stops arriving. A chair stays empty. A voice becomes difficult to remember. A photograph becomes precious. And one day, you realise that the person you were waiting for is not coming through the door. But that day had not arrived yet. So I waited. I waited for my father. I waited for peace. I waited for the world to become ordinary again. And while I waited, the war moved closer.