Winter tightened its grip on Landour. The mist no longer came and went; it stayed, wrapping the oaks in grey wool and turning every walk into a slow dream. I kept the fire burning day and night, feeding it with branches I gathered from the garden. The axe felt good in my hands—simple, honest work that kept my thoughts from wandering too far upstairs.
One afternoon, while searching for matches in the kitchen drawer, I found the letters.
They were tied with a piece of faded blue ribbon, the kind used for tying parcels in old post offices. The envelopes were yellowed, addressed in a man's firm, slanting hand to "Mrs. Lila Harrow, Maplewood Cottage, Landour." The postmarks read Rawalpindi, Peshawar, Delhi Cantonment—dates from 1945 to 1947.
I carried them to the sitting room and sat by the fire.
The first letter was cheerful:
My dearest Lila,
The hills must be turning gold now. Here the dust never settles. Meera must be growing taller by the day. Tell her Daddy will bring her a wooden horse when he comes on leave. I dream of the three of us sitting on the steps, watching the valley lights come on at dusk.
Yours always,
Edward
The tone changed as the months passed. By late 1946 the letters grew shorter, the handwriting tighter:
Things are unsettled here. Stay in the cottage. Do not travel. Keep Meera close. I will come as soon as I can.
The last letter, dated October 1947, was only a few lines:
My love,
I may not write again for some time. The trains are full and the roads are not safe. Remember the oak tree where we carved our initials. If anything happens, take Meera there and wait. I will find you.
E.
No more letters followed.
I sat with them until the fire burned low. Outside, the wind moved through the deodars like a sigh that had waited years to be released.
When I climbed the stairs that evening, the small room felt colder than usual. The armchair faced the window as always. On the table lay the notebook—still blank except for that one line: "It still waits in the room."
I placed the bundle of letters beside it.
"I read them," I said aloud. "Your father loved you both very much."
The curtain stirred slightly, though the window was shut.
I sat in the armchair and waited.
Nothing happened.
But when I rose to leave, the ribbon had come undone. The letters lay open, as though someone had read them again after a long time.
That night the tapping was different—not impatient, but slow, almost thoughtful. It came from the landing, one soft knock for each step, descending halfway, then stopping.
I stood at the bottom of the stairs.
"Goodnight," I said.
Three gentle taps answered—goodnight.