I heard the floorboards creak as I stepped inside the house—my house. A part of me smiled, another part shuddered at the thought. I had finally moved out of my parents’ place, yet the transition from a Manhattan apartment to a small house in the suburbs wasn’t going to be easy.
The house was empty. Eerily silent. I had grown used to the constant hum of New York—sirens wailing, cars honking, voices spilling onto the streets. But here, in the quiet of the suburbs, the silence pressed in on me. Occasionally, a car would pass, but for the most part, the night was still.
I paused at the table. I had barely spent any time here. Between long shifts as a hospital intern, this house was little more than a place to sleep, to eat on occasion, before heading back to work. Back to my escape. Back to my burden. Darkness enveloped me. In the city, the nights were never truly dark—streetlights, neon signs, and office windows kept the skyline alive. But here, aside from a few scattered streetlights and the faint glow from distant houses, the world was draped in shadows.
As I flicked on the light, the house felt emptier than usual. Or maybe it was just my mood. The floorboards creaked louder than I remembered, breaking the silence of the night. Still, for a house built in the 1910s, it was surprisingly well-maintained.
That thought barely crossed my mind before—crack.
The floor gave way beneath my foot, but my reflexes kicked in, and I yanked my foot back just in time. So much for being well-maintained. I groaned, already dreading the repair costs.
But then something caught my eye—a flash of color beneath the wreckage.
I dropped to my knees, reaching for it without thinking. My fingers closed around aged paper, letters, old and fragile. From the previous owner? Maybe older? My moral compass wavered.
Curiosity won. I unfolded the letters.
September 1, 1941.
My jaw tightened. This letter was over eighty years old. I started reading.
To my Darling
Days drag on here, longer than I ever thought they could. The sun still comes up, but it don’t feel right, not without you. I’m writing this in one of the rare quiet moments. Soon enough the battle calls again. The ground here ain’t ours, but I carry home with me all the same. Carry you with me, every step.
The fellas talk a lot about what they left behind. Some miss the buzz of New York, some talk about their ma’s cookin. Me, it’s your voice I miss most. The way you hummed when making dinner, the way you’d read to me before bed, your laugh bouncing around the walls of our little place. I’m scared I’ll forget it all, that war’ll turn me into someone you don’t know no more. But I hang onto you—onto us—’cause it’s the only thing keeping me grounded out here.
Captain says we’re moving soon. Don’t know where to, just that we go forward like always. I try not to think on it too much. Just think of getting back to you.
I tucked this letter under the boards in our barracks. Dumb maybe, but maybe someday someone’ll find it. If not, let it be my voice in the quiet, my love left behind in ink. If luck’s with me, I’ll be in your arms again. If not, know I loved you right to the end.
Forever yours,
James
I exhaled slowly; the weight of history pressed against my chest. The ink had faded in places, the edges of the paper delicate with time, but James’ words felt as vivid as if he had penned them yesterday. I stared at the hollow space beneath the floorboards, where this letter had waited—trapped in time, waiting for someone.
Waiting for me.
My hands trembled as I reached inside again. My heart pounded. Another envelope. Another letter. Carefully, I pulled it free, the brittle paper whispering secrets against my fingers.
This one was dated July 4, 1945.
To my dear James,
I don’t even know if this’ll reach you. Don’t know if you’re still out there, if you still walk this earth or if the war’s taken you from me. But I’m writing anyway, ’cause stopping would mean giving in to a silence I can’t bear.
They say the war’s over now. That the fightin’s stopped, and our boys are coming home. But every day I stand by the tracks, watch the trains roll in, and every time, you’re not on them. I keep hoping what else is there to do?
I’ve read your last letter so many times I’ve near worn it out. I keep it under my pillow every night like somehow it’ll bring you back to me.
This house feels empty without you. I thought maybe being here, in the quiet, might make me feel closer to you. But it don’t. Feels more like I’m living in a ghost of a home. If you’re out there, if you’re breathing, please. Please, come home to me.
Always yours,
Maria
The silence of the house suddenly felt suffocating. I sat there for a long time, my hands trembling, staring at Maria’s desperate plea. Had James ever made it home? Had she ever known if he lived or died? I glanced around the room, half-expecting to see ghosts. Perhaps, in a way, I already had. This house had held their love, their hope, their sorrow. Now, eighty years later, I was the one left with their story.
I carefully folded the letters, tucking them back beneath the floorboards.
Not buried. Not forgotten. Just waiting.
Waiting, like Maria had waited for James. Waiting, like history itself, for someone to listen.
I ran a hand through my hair, the weight of their love settling in my chest like an ache. Their story had survived long past their time, lingering in ink and wood, held together by hope. I glanced toward the front door, the world outside oblivious to the echoes of their past. How many love letters had been lost to time? How many voices had been swallowed by silence? I had stumbled upon something precious, something sacred, yet I was just a stranger. But tonight, in the stillness of this house, I carried their story with me. Maybe, just maybe, that meant they were never truly gone.
