Letters to the sky

 


Experimental Short Story Series #62

Title: Letters to the Sky: Voices from the Post Office of the Dead

By Faraz Parvez
Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal
Former Faculty Member, Umm Al Qura University, Makkah, KSA
(Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal)

In the forgotten district of Purani Dilli, nestled between a crumbling mosque and a rusted train yard, sits a tiny post office with no address.

No signboard. No mailboxes. No postmaster on record.

And yet, letters arrive.

They aren’t delivered by courier, pigeon, or hand.
They simply… appear.

Folded in ancient paper. Inked in languages long dead. Sealed with symbols only dreams understand. The townsfolk call it the Post Office of the Dead — a place where the departed write back.

Not everyone can read them. But he can.

The Reader

Maulvi Imtiaz had gone blind a decade ago. Or perhaps, he simply chose not to see the world anymore. He was the caretaker of the office — not by appointment, but by fate.

Each morning at Fajr, he’d unlock the heavy blue door, sweep the dust from the ancient wooden counter, and sit. He never posted letters. He received them.

Not from the living. But from the ones who left things unsaid.

He’d read them aloud, each one a river of emotion, regret, longing — and sometimes, astonishing peace.

Some of the Letters

"Dear Daughter,
I was wrong to silence your dreams. I watch you now—how you write, how you breathe poetry. Keep going. You are the verse I never learned."

"My beloved,
I never forgave myself for the argument before I died. The words you said… I deserved them. But know this—I still smell the jasmine in your hair."

"To my son,
I was afraid to tell you I loved you. My silence was my prison. But I am proud of the man you are becoming. Speak what I never could."

Some letters didn’t carry words.
Only teardrops pressed into paper.
Others came with the scent of sandalwood, or the static buzz of an old transistor lullaby.

The Visitors

Soon, people from across cities and provinces started arriving.
Not to post letters—but to listen.

Mothers with photos of sons. Widows in white shawls. Children holding on to the smell of their father’s shirts.
They would sit in silence as Maulvi Imtiaz read the messages aloud—each voice carried in the wind like a benediction from beyond.

Some wept.
Some smiled.
All left lighter than they came.

One Final Letter

One night, when the moon was hanging too low and the stars were oddly still, a letter arrived addressed to:

"The One Who Reads."

It was written in his own handwriting.

“Imtiaz, you never wrote back. You only read.
But you, too, carry the ache of things unsaid.
Go now. Speak your truth. Post it to the sky.
We are waiting.”

That night, Maulvi Imtiaz wrote his first letter in thirty years.
And when he finished, the post office vanished.

Some say it only appears to those with unfinished goodbyes.
To those who need to hear one last word…
Even if it comes from the other side of time.

Why This Story Matters

We live in a world of instant messages and constant noise — but some messages transcend time, space, and death itself.

This story is for those grieving silently, for those who never got closure, and for those still waiting for a letter that may never come — but might, just might, already be written.

📮 Read more soul-deep stories, surreal explorations, and literary marvels at:
🔗 farazparvez1.blogspot.com
Because some stories don’t just touch you. They stay with you.

By Faraz Parvez
Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal
Former Faculty Member, Umm Al Qura University, Makkah, KSA
(Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal)


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