When The Past Comes Calling

Delia looked up from her laptop at the flatscreen TV as the telephone rang, expecting to see another "Unknown Caller" on the caller ID. Irritated by the interruption to her flow of ideas and work, her annoyance turned to surprise when something wholly unexpected appeared on the screen: USPS DEAD LETTERS and a local phone number.

Hesitating for a moment, she grabbed the handset and answered with practiced caution. “Hello?”

“Hello, is this Delia Fielding?” a deep voice asked on the other end of the line.

“Yes,” she replied, her curiosity piqued.

“This is the Dead Letters Department of the New York City Postal Service. We’ve just discovered a letter postmarked ten years ago, addressed to you at a previous apartment in New York.” He rattled off an address—one of her old apartments from two moves ago.

“Yes, that was my address. How did you track me down?” Delia asked, frowning.

“We are the government. We have our ways,” the man said, his words punctuated by a disconcerting cackle. “We’ll get this forwarded to you immediately. So sorry for the delay.” Before she could offer her current address, he hung up abruptly. The sound of the phone beeping in her ear was irritating and worrisome–this stranger knew where she lived. Then again, she reasoned, if they had her phone number, they likely didn’t need her to provide anything else.

Delia stared at the phone, unsettled. It was such a bizarre experience. She planned to cut off her landline at the end of the month, as most of her friends had already done—what would they have done to track her down then? With a shrug, she pushed the thought aside and returned to her laptop.

Her focus shifted back to the design she was working on, a custom necklace for a very discerning client. As a jewelry designer, every piece mattered, but this one felt particularly important—crucial to her career and future. Yet, as she sketched, the strange call lingered in the back of her mind, an unexpected crack in her otherwise orderly day. She imagined it was an actual letter, not a piece of junk mail or a bill. They wouldn’t track her down for that type of mail.

Delia had nearly forgotten about the call by the time the letter arrived two days later. A yellowed, plain white envelope, unremarkable except for its faded, decade-old postmark, within a clear USPS “so sorry” envelope usually reserved for when they damaged a magazine or another piece of mail, lay on top of the standard stack of bills, junk, and catalogs. Scribbled in pen across the front in neat handwriting was her current address and the stamp: "Processed by USPS Dead Letter Office." 

Delia’s heart thudded as she tore the envelope open. Inside was a single sheet of cream-colored stationery. The scent of faded cologne clung faintly to the paper, a detail that made her stomach lurch with recognition before she even unfolded it.

The letter was handwritten, the penmanship unmistakable:

Delia,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, but I hope you do. I’ve written and rewritten these words in my head a hundred times since the day I let you walk away. It took me too long to realize that I should have stopped you. I should have run after you, apologized, begged you to stay — but I didn’t. And I’ve regretted it every day since.

You were right to leave. I was selfish and scared, so I shut you out when I should have let you in. I wasn’t ready then, but I think part of me always knew you were The One. “The One,” I know, sounds cliché, but isn’t love supposed to be the one thing that makes us say stupid things without shame?

By the time I pulled myself together, it seemed too late. I told myself you were better off without me, but the truth is, I’m the one who’s not okay. If there’s even the smallest chance that you might read this and still think of me, I’m asking for that chance. I want to be better for you. I want a life with you. Please, if you feel anything for me still, reach out.

With love, always,

Grant

Delia stared at the letter, stunned. The Grant she remembered was charming, flawed, and maddening in equal measure. He had always known how to make her laugh, but he was hopeless when it came to commitment. He was always good with words. After all, he was a writer but not great at spilling his feelings. They’d spent two years ricocheting between passion and heartbreak before she finally ended it for good. Or so she’d thought.

Ten years. The letter had sat undelivered for ten years. What had her life been like when he’d written it? She could hardly recall now, except that she had been newly single, trying to scrape together a living in a cramped studio apartment. Delia looked over her tools and workbench, the only things that remained in her life and her home of their time together.

And where was Grant now? Married? Living halfway around the world? Dead? She hated herself for considering that last possibility. The words in the letter were raw, heartfelt, and uncharacteristically vulnerable for the Grant she had known. It didn’t sound like the man who had once ghosted her for an entire week because he was “sorting out his feelings.”

A new thought occurred to her: Did he ever wonder why I didn’t respond? Did he assume she’d read the letter and chosen silence? Or had he simply moved on, forgetting her the way she had tried—and failed—to forget him?

Her fingers hovered over her laptop’s keyboard, the cursor blinking in a blank search bar. She typed “Grant Barry Whitaker” and hit Enter, holding her breath as the results loaded.

Delia’s eyes ran over the screen as the search results loaded. Her breath caught in her throat as she clicked on the first link: Grant B. Whitaker, 1985–2016.

Her pulse raced as she scrolled through the obituary. Grant had passed away eight years ago in a car accident on a rainy evening outside Chicago. The brief write-up mentioned his work as a freelance writer and his volunteer efforts with a local literacy program. It was far from the carefree, restless man she remembered, but the words painted a picture of someone who had been changing and growing.

Delia sat back, stunned. Brimming with hope and vulnerability, the letter she’d just read was a message from a man she’d never get to speak to again. The weight of its journey—lost for a decade, only to arrive when it was too late—pressed down on her.

But something about the timing gnawed at her. Why now?

She dug deeper into the search results, eventually stumbling upon a blog Grant had maintained. The entries were sporadic, but one title caught her eye: “The Letter.” Her heart thudded as she clicked the link.

The post began with Grant’s signature self-deprecating humor, lamenting his lack of romantic courage in his younger years.

“I wrote her a letter once,” it read. “The best letter I’ve ever written—probably the most honest thing I’ve ever done. I told her everything: how I regretted letting her go, how much she meant to me, and how I wanted a second chance. But here’s the thing: I never knew if it got to her.”

He went on to describe how he’d dropped it in the mailbox with a mix of hope and dread, only to second-guess himself every day afterward.

“Maybe it got lost. Maybe she read it and didn’t care. Or maybe she cared too much and didn’t know what to say. I’ll never know. But if by some miracle she ever sees this, Delia, I hope you’re happy. You deserve to be.”

Delia wiped away a tear, a bittersweet ache blooming in her chest. She had her answer. He had always wondered, just as she had now. And while it was devastating to know she couldn’t tell him she had finally received his words, there was a strange comfort in knowing he had hoped for her happiness.

That night, she sat at her workbench, her mind swirling. Inspired, she sketched a new design—a pendant shaped like an open envelope with a tiny inscription etched inside: “You deserve to be happy.”

It wasn’t just a piece for her clients; it was a tribute to Grant and the fleeting yet profound love they had shared. Though the chapter had closed, his letter had given her something invaluable: the reminder that love, no matter how imperfect, leaves a mark that time cannot erase.