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Tio Sage
I am a copywriter and digital marketer. @ Adekunle Ajasin University
Lagos, Nigeria
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The Last Letter
<p><br></p><p>Her name was written on it, in the handwriting she hadn’t seen in over twenty years.</p><p>To Eliza. Read when you’re ready.</p><p><br></p><p>It was from Thomas.</p><p><br></p><p>Thomas, her older brother. Gone since that winter night when he vanished into a storm and never came back.</p><p><br></p><p>She had only been sixteen. He was twenty-two, restless, always half here and half gone. He talked of cities he wanted to see, skies he wanted to touch. But he never told her why he left. He just disappeared, like a ghost unmade by the cold.</p><p><br></p><p>Eliza sat down on the attic floor, hands trembling, the scent of old wood and dust rising like memory. She opened the letter, and his voice returned like a crack in the silence:</p><p><br></p><p><br></p><p>Eliza,</p><p><br></p><p>I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’ll say it simply. I’m not coming back. Not because I don’t love you, but because I do—and I can't let you see me falling apart.</p><p><br></p><p>You always saw me as strong. As someone who could hold things together. But the truth is, I’m tired. Not the kind of tired sleep can fix.</p><p><br></p><p>I’ve been carrying things I never knew how to name. Regrets. Shadows. Things that steal the light.</p><p><br></p><p>But I want you to keep shining. You were always the brightest part of my life.</p><p><br></p><p>Promise me you’ll grow up without hate in your heart. Don’t chase ghosts. Don’t let sorrow steal your laughter. Love hard. Live loud. And when you think of me, let it be with warmth, not weight.**</p><p><br></p><p>**You were the best thing in my world. I hope I was at least a good memory in yours.</p><p>– Thomas</p><p><br></p><p><br></p><p>Eliza sat for a long time after finishing. The letter slipped from her hand, falling gently to the floor.</p><p><br></p><p>She cried—not the way she had when he first disappeared, wild and lost—but softer, older. Like a rain that knows it won’t wash the pain away, only water the soil he left behind.</p><p><br></p><p>She kept the letter. Not in a drawer or a box, but in her heart.</p><p><br></p><p>That night, she lit a candle by the window.</p><p><br></p><p>And for the first time in twenty years, she whispered, </p><p><br></p>
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