Linh returned home just before noon. The soft golden sunlight clung to her shoulders, and beads of sweat still shimmered in her hair after an unexpectedly long morning stroll. She cooked a simple bowl of noodles and sat down at the table, her gaze drifting lazily to her phone. Normally, she stayed far away from social media—it only deepened the feeling that life had moved on without her.But today, for reasons she couldn't explain, she tapped it open.
A quiet notification blinked on the screen:"Volunteers needed – Write a letter to a stranger. Would you like to share a piece of your story?"
Linh raised her eyebrows. It was from a small, nearly anonymous group with a poetic name: Writers in the Quiet Season.The project asked for so little—just a letter, anonymous and honest, to be sent out into the world. To someone, somewhere, who might be quietly breaking.
She read the description three times.
"You don't need to be strong. You just need to be sincere."
Her fingers hovered above the keyboard. Part of her wanted to scroll away, as she always did. But another part—fragile, curious, and unexpectedly awake—lingered. Like a tiny seed stirring beneath layers of frost.
She signed up.
That afternoon, Linh returned to an old café tucked under the shade of a crape myrtle tree. It hadn't changed: yellow-stained walls, weatherworn green doors, and the soft hum of old French songs curling through the air.Her old corner seat by the window was still there, waiting.
A young woman with cropped hair and bright eyes brought over her coffee. As she placed the cup on the table, she smiled gently.
"You used to come here often, didn't you? I remember you… You smiled a lot back then."
Linh blinked, taken aback—not by the memory itself, but by the realization that she had forgotten. That she had once been someone who smiled freely.
"Thank you…" she whispered.
When the girl turned away, Linh lingered, cupping the warm mug in both hands. She looked out the window at the late-afternoon sun scattering through the violet blossoms above.And something inside her shifted—something tiny, delicate, but real.
She reached into her bag, pulled out an old notebook, and tore a page from the back. Then, she began to write:
"To someone I've never met,I'm not sure I know how to bring comfort.But if your heart feels as quiet and heavy as the ocean floor—then I'm there too.Maybe we're not as alone as we think."
Linh read the words over again. A faint smile ghosted across her lips.She didn't know who would receive the letter.But for the first time in what felt like forever, she realized—she wasn't just writing to a stranger.
She was writing to herself.