**The Secret of the Old Letter: Love Stronger Than the Past**
Nathan returned from work exhausted. Over the summer, he’d taken on extra shifts at a construction site—he couldn’t live off his mother forever. In a year, he’d finish uni, land a proper job, and marry his sweetheart, Emily.
“Mum, how about a weekend in the countryside?” he suggested dreamily, finishing his supper. “We could relax, I’ll go fishing.”
“I was just about to say the same, love,” replied Margaret, setting a cup of tea in front of him. “Thought you’d be too knackered for it. Maybe we should sell the cottage? If no one’s living there, it’ll fall apart. We haven’t been since your dad passed. If you don’t need it, the money could go toward your wedding.”
“Emily’s parents have a place just outside Brighton,” Nathan nodded. “I’m fine with selling. Let’s go Friday evening.”
“And bring Emily,” Margaret added brightly.
Nathan had spent every summer at his gran’s cottage. After she died, his parents used it for holidays, even tried growing a veg patch. But after the accident—his father’s death—his mother had left the place to rot.
Friday evening found them on a stuffy bus. Nathan stared out the window while Emily slept, her head on his shoulder. The ride wasn’t long—forty minutes—but the summer heat made it feel endless. At last, the bus lurched to a stop at the village edge. Passengers grabbed bags and hurried off. Nathan leaped down the steps, breathing in warm country air.
“God, your shirt’s soaked, poor thing,” Emily murmured, brushing a hand over his back.
“’S’alright,” he grinned. “We’ll drop our stuff, then head to the river.”
They walked through the village, ignoring curious glances from locals. Women greeted them, eyes lingering, but didn’t ask questions—that wasn’t the village way. Nathan carried bags of food for the weekend, glad to be free of the bus’s stale air.
The cottage yard was overgrown with weeds and nettles. “Watch your step,” Margaret warned. Emily yelped and clung to Nathan as the rusty lock gave way. All three stepped into the cool, dusty house and froze.
“Like we never left,” Margaret sighed, nostalgia thick in her voice.
Nathan recognized familiar touches—faded photos on the walls, magazine cut-outs he’d stuck up as a boy, short floral curtains. Iron beds were piled with knitted blankets and lumpy pillows. In the middle of the room stood a table covered in a worn blue oilcloth.
“It’s cosy,” Emily said. “You sure you want to sell?”
“I’ll sort the bags,” Margaret directed. “Nathan, fetch firewood—it’s out back. Emily, have a look around.”
The cottage came alive. Fire crackled in the hearth; tea, biscuits, and sugar appeared on the table. An old electric hob sputtered to life. Nathan hauled water from the well, and Margaret set the kettle to boil. When the heat grew stifling, they flung open doors and windows, letting the stifling air escape. Nathan and Emily slipped off to the river.
That night, the house groaned as if mourning its years alone. By morning, Margaret had breakfast ready, then sent the two of them up to the attic to sort through junk while she tackled the wardrobes.
“Ugh, so many cobwebs!” Emily pressed close to Nathan under the sloped ceiling. Forgotten linens hung from ropes—left behind by his mother or grandmother. Crates of rubbish yielded nothing interesting until a loose sheet fluttered down.
“Nathan, come here!” Emily called.
“What is it?” He peered over her shoulder. “A letter?”
“Listen,” she said, and read aloud.
*”Dear James, what’s happened? You promised to come back, talk to your parents, and return for me. It’s been a month with no word. I don’t know what to think—I’m beside myself. I wanted to tell you in person, but perhaps this will hurry you along: I’m pregnant. If Mum were alive, I’d tell her—she’d understand. But my aunt… I’m not sure she’ll be pleased when she notices…”*
The letter spoke of love, longing, and waiting. At the bottom was a name—Eleanor.
“Why’s this got you so worked up?” Nathan shrugged. “Just an old letter.”
“You don’t get it,” Emily sighed. “This isn’t just any letter. Your name’s Nathan James Wright, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said slowly, not following.
“It’s addressed to James. See now?” Emily’s tone sharpened.
“So? Maybe Mum knows. I’ll ask her.”
“Wait!” Emily caught his arm. “The letter’s from Eleanor, not your mum. Why was it hidden in an attic magazine? Why keep it?”
“Bloody detective, you are,” Nathan smirked. “So what do we do? How do we find out who wrote it?”
“Wish Gran were here,” Emily muttered. “She’d know. Are there any other old-timers left in the village?”
“Dunno. Let’s ask. Mum!” he called, thumping downstairs.
Margaret sneezed in a cloud of dust. Stacks of linens covered the bed. “Anyone from Gran’s time still around?” Nathan asked.
“Old Nan June, I reckon,” Margaret said, eyeing them. “Why?”
“Just curious about family history. Where’s she live?”
“Last cottage at the end of the lane. Distant cousin of your gran’s. Where are you off to?”
“The river!” Nathan called back, tugging Emily outside.
June’s cottage sagged under ivy. “This the place?” Emily frowned.
Before they could knock, the door creaked open. A white-haired woman peered out. “You lost?”
“Nan June?” Nathan stepped closer. “Nathan Wright. James and Margaret’s boy.”
June squinted, then waved them in. “Kettle’s on.”
Her tiny home was spotless. “Thought it’d be all dust and spiders, eh?” she chuckled. “Not while I’m breathing. Out with it—why’ve you come?”
Emily handed her the letter. June listened as she read it aloud, her face unreadable. Nathan’s chest tightened—this wasn’t just gossip. This was his family.
June sighed. “Margaret’s not with you, so you’ve not told her. Good.”
She took her time, testing their patience before speaking.
“Your mum was a beauty. Lads trailed after her. But she only had eyes for your dad. He went off with the army; she waited. I’d ask, *‘James writing?’* She’d laugh: *‘Where’s he gonna go?’* When he came back, they married within the month—whole village celebrated.”
June paused, studying Emily. “You’re pretty too. Nice to see young love.”
“After the wedding, they moved to London. Margaret became an accountant; James worked factory shifts, studied nights. Came back on weekends. Then one autumn, his mum was knitting by the window when a girl stumbled up the path—pregnant, carrying a bag. His mum knew. Ran out, said, *‘James isn’t here. He’s married now, his wife’s expecting. Go on.’* Girl said she’d nowhere left. So his mum—stern as she was—took pity. Brought her to me, told the village she was my niece. Girl went into labour right there. Ambulance took her and the baby away. Never saw her again. Later, James confessed—he never thought Margaret would wait. Made promises, then forgot them when he saw her again. Next spring, Margaret had you.”
June leaned back. “She still doesn’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.”
“You love her?” She nodded at Emily.
“More than anything,” Nathan said.
“And the letter?” Emily pressed.
“His mum read it but never gave it to James—he was already married. Hid it God knows why.”
“Ta, Nan June,” Emily said, standing. “We should go.”
“Need firewood or water fetched?” Nathan offered.
“I’ll manage. Nice seeing you. Tell Margaret to visit. Might be the last time.”
“Your dad wronged that girl,” Emily mused on the walk back.
“Bet she’s happily married by now,” Nathan said lightly.
Emily stopped. “What?” he frowned.
She stared at him strangely. “Does none of that bother you?”
“It does, but it’s ancient history. Nan June’s a hundred years old—could’ve made it up.”
Emily whispered, “My mum’s name is Eleanor.”
“So? Plenty of Eleanors,” Nathan scoffed. “Wait—you think… No, that’s mental. Stuff like that doesn’t happen.”
Emily just looked at him.
“You’re saying you’re that baby? That we’re siblings?” He shook his head. “Odds are a million to one. Even if Eleanor stayed in our town, it’Nathan pulled her close, whispering, “Whatever the truth is, it doesn’t change how I feel—I choose you, today and always,” and kissed her under the setting sun.
