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The Letter from the Past
Mara had consistently cherished the aroma of old books. The stale smelling, gritty smell appeared to associate her to some other time, a different universe, despite the fact that she was simply a guest in a handed down book shop toward the edge of her area. The shop was a maze of worn retires and piles of failed to remember books. Today, her fingers followed across the spines of books she had never perused, every one alluring her into an untold story. Her eyes arrived on a blurred blue calfskin bound diary, half-concealed underneath a heap of yellowing soft cover books.
Inquisitive, she got it, getting over the residue. It was heavier than she expected, and the well used edges caused it to appear to be an artifact, something abandoned by time itself. She opened it delicately, cautious not to harm the delicate pages, and observed that it was anything but a diary by any stretch of the imagination, however an assortment of letters, flawlessly bound together.
The primary letter, yellowed with age, was dated October 12, 1923.
Dearest One,
In the event that you are understanding this, I have bombed you. I have not yet tracked down the boldness to express out loud whatever my heart has known for lifetimes — what my spirit has murmured to me through the actual texture of this world. Truly this: I have adored you however long I have existed, and I will keep on cherishing you past this life, past every one of the lives we will share.
You may not recall me, yet I know you. I know you in manners that words can’t completely communicate. Furthermore, on the off chance that destiny has been thoughtful, you will feel my adoration as you read this letter, as I probably am aware you generally have. You and I, we are bound together in a dance that traverses time itself, and regardless of the distance, regardless of the years, we will continuously think of one as another.
Maybe you will track down me in this lifetime, or maybe I will track down you. I don’t have any idea how or when, yet I realize it is unavoidable.
Up to that point, I hang tight for you across the cloak of time, my heart throbbing for the second when we are at last joined together.
Yours, in all ways and forever,
L.
Mara’s breath trapped in her throat. She had perused many letters in her day to day existence, yet none had at any point felt so… individual. The words on the page beat with an energy she could nearly contact, a power that reverberated profound inside her chest. Her fingers shuddered as she went to the following letter.
Dearest Heart,
It is practically excruciating, this division. Each second without you feels like an unfathomable length of time, 1,000 lifetimes extended across the skyline of my spirit. I realize you are out there, some place, pausing — however we might be isolated by existence, I accept we are nearer than we can at any point envision.
Do you recollect? Do you recollect our chuckling? The manner in which we used to walk connected at the hip through the fields of lavender, our spirits entwined as a wonderful, unified whole? I recollect it like it were yesterday. Maybe, in some odd corner of the universe, it was.
I have carried on with many lives, my adoration, and in every one, I have looked for you. I have looked for you in 1,000 countenances, 1,000 spots, expecting to find you again. What’s more, each time, I have felt the reverberation of your spirit calling me home.
However, presently I’m sure that this is the lifetime where we will meet. Here we will recollect, where we will at long last be allowed to cherish unafraid.
Until that day, my dearest one, my heart remains yours.
Always yours,
L.
Mara’s heartbeat revived. The words felt excessively natural, like they had been composed for her. She shut her eyes, attempting to consistent herself. The letters were composed almost quite a while back, but, they appeared to connect from the past, pulling her in. She had never had confidence in things like destiny or perfect partners. In any case, the force in those letters… it was obvious.
The last letter was longer than the others, and Mara wavered prior to understanding it, like reluctant to uncover excessively.
Cherished,
This evening, I have confidential to share. It is a reality I have referred to as far back as I can recall, but I have kept it covered up, sitting tight for the right second. Yet, maybe there is no right second. Maybe it is presently, in the calm isolation of this letter, that I should admit the profundity of my adoration.
You and I are not limited by the limitations of time as others are. We are not simply two spirits who meet in a solitary lifetime. We are reverberations of each other, arriving at across endless times, drawn together by an undetectable string. In each everyday routine we have experienced, we have found each other once more, each time with a similar acknowledgment, a similar attractive draw.
In this life, you may not recall me, however I will recollect you. You may not realize that I am here, but rather I will watch, pausing, adoring you from the shadows until the second you turn and see me.
At the point when you do, you will be aware. You will realize that we have forever been associated. Furthermore, you will feel, profound inside your spirit, that we have never genuinely been separated.
I’m not requesting that you recall me now, but rather just to know this: when everything looks good, you will. What’s more, until that second, I remain yours, in each life, in each structure, in each heartbeat.
Yours,
L.
Mara’s head turned. She could nearly hear the voice of the essayist — L — murmuring through the very air around her. She realized it sounded crazy. The thought of perfect partners across lifetimes, of recollections and associations conveyed past the grave, was an idea she had consistently excused as heartfelt dream. However, as she stayed there, encompassed by the aroma of antiquated paper, her psyche felt overpowered by something she was unable to make sense of.
She turned the page of the letter, expecting some conclusion, however there was nothing more. Simply a clear piece of paper, as though the last words had been cut off before they could be composed.
Mara sat peacefully from here onward, indefinitely quite a while, the letter weighty in her lap. The book shop hushed up now, and the sun had started to set outside, creating long shaded areas across the floor. She felt an odd draw in her chest, like something — or somebody — was calling to her.
Her contemplations floated to a man she had met as of late. Somebody she had felt a moment association with, somebody whose name appeared to torment her in dreams. Liam. The name fallen through her psyche unbidden, and with it, an unusual feeling of acknowledgment.
She shook her head. It was incomprehensible. In any case, as the last light of day blurred and the book shop developed more obscure, Mara couldn’t resist the opportunity to ponder. Had the author of the letter known her previously? Had she and L — whoever they were — been together in another life?
She left the book shop that night, the letter painstakingly got into her sack, the sensation of being watched — of being hung tight for — waiting in her sub-conscience. The world had consistently appeared to be tremendous, distant, a spot brimming with outsiders. Yet, presently, it felt more modest. More private. As though the response to an inquiry she hadn’t realized she was posing was simply reachable.
Furthermore, perhaps, quite possibly, she was going to track down it.
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