It was a drizzly afternoon when Linh returned home, arms full of groceries—just some milk and a bundle of vegetables. She didn't turn on the lights. Instead, she sank into the chair near the window, still clutching the shopping bag.Outside, the sky hung a dull gray. The rain whispered softly, like old memories brushing past the eaves. Everything seemed slower, blurred at the edges—like a half-remembered dream.
A faint click echoed from downstairs—the sound of the mailbox being opened. Linh didn't expect anything. These days, mail usually meant bills or ads she'd toss without a glance.But today, tucked among the usual papers, was a pale brown envelope. Her name was written across it in blue ink, by hand.
Her expression shifted. It was… a reply—from the Writers in the Quiet Season project.
She sat down, taking a deep breath before carefully opening the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper, handwritten in a neat, gentle script that felt oddly familiar.As her eyes moved across the lines, it was as though the words weren't just ink—but a quiet voice speaking straight into her heart:
To you, the one who sent the first letter.
I don't know who you are—your age, your city, or what you like to eat for breakfast.But when I read your words, I saw something rare: honesty.The kind that takes courage.
You said you're at the bottom of the ocean.I believe you—because your words carried salt.Not the salt of tears, but of truths left unsaid for too long.
I've been there too.I've sat in a dark room with no lights on, just to feel something in the silence.I've waited for a knock that never came.
So thank you—for saying what I never dared to.
I can't pull you up from the ocean floor.But if that's where you are… I'll stay close,until you're ready to rise.
Because sometimes,just knowing someone understands—is enough.
– From someone who once sank.
Linh read the letter once. Then again. And again. Each time, her heart trembled a little more.She didn't know who the writer was—man or woman, young or old—but somehow, their words had seen straight into her hidden corners. No judgment. No pity. Just presence.
She folded the letter carefully, set it on the table, and stared at it as though it gave off light.
She didn't know why tears stung her eyes—Not from sorrow,But from something long-lost returning:A sense of connection.
Outside the window, the rain had quietly stopped.