He folded the letter, smoothed the edges, and set it aside. Then he stood up and walked toward the wooden box that stood by the wall, under the window. A simple box, made of walnut wood, with brass hinges that had long since turned black. For fifteen years, this box had accompanied him, from Tehran to this village, from that life to this life.
He opened the lid. The smell of old paper filled the space—the smell of memory, of the years that had passed. The box was full of letters, lined up, with various dates. He looked at the earliest ones: November 6, 2009. The first letter. One month after the accident.
He ran his hand over them, gently, as if stroking his children’s heads. Then he placed today’s letter on top of the rest, at the edge of the box where the newest letters stood.
For a few seconds he stared at the pile of letters. Fifteen years. Five thousand five hundred days. Five thousand five hundred letters. Each of them a few hundred words. Millions of words that no one had ever read.
He took one of the old letters. Its date was May 24, 2010. Six months after the accident. He opened it and read:
“My Zahra, today spring has come. The trees have turned green. I went into the yard and sat under the mulberry tree. Do you remember last year at this time we went to pick mulberries together? You climbed up high on that long branch, plucking the berries and dropping them down. Saeed would catch them, Reza would eat them. Your mother would say, ‘Be careful, don’t fall.’
Now the mulberry tree is still there, the berries are still there, but you are not. I sat under the tree, picked a mulberry, ate it. But it had no taste. Without you, nothing has any taste.”
He closed the letter. His eyes grew wet. He put it back in its place.
He took another letter, from a few years later: “Zahra, today I went to your mother’s grave. Grass had grown over it. I watered it, placed flowers. I wanted to pray for you, but I just sat and cried. You know, I who all my life spoke of meaning, of God, of mysticism—when I myself fell, I forgot everything. I only knew how to cry.”
He closed the letter. He looked at his trembling hands. Hands that once held a pen to write articles and deliver lectures. Now they only wrote letters to a daughter who would never read them.
He closed the box. He placed his hand on the wooden lid, felt the cold. The wood was cold, like everything else.
He returned to the window. He sat down, fixing his gaze on the lake. The mist had completely lifted; sunlight shone on the water. A fishing boat was far away, and a few seagulls circled above it.
He thought about what would become of these letters. When he was gone, would anyone ever read them? Would anyone understand what was in these papers? Would anyone know that a father had written every day for fifteen years to his daughter, without ever hearing a reply?
Or perhaps they would remain here, in this wooden box, until someone found them one day and threw them away. Like so many other things.
But it didn’t matter. Writing was what mattered. The act of writing itself.
He took a sip of his cold tea. It was bitter.
Life continued. Even for someone who had lost everything.
