The Unopened Letter

SOME LETTERS SHOULD NEVER BE OPENED

By Leonardo da Vinci

Chapter One

The Letter That Arrived Too Late

The rain began at precisely 4:17 p.m.

Clara Whitmore remembered the time because she had beenstaring at the clock above the reception desk for almost twenty minutes,waiting for the last customer to leave so she could finally close the littlebookshop.

It was November, and the city had been unusually cold thatyear. The kind of cold that crept beneath coats, settled into old buildings,and made people walk faster than usual. Outside, the streets glistened beneaththe rain, and the occasional passing car sent water splashing against thepavement.

At thirty-two, Clara had become rather good at livingquietly.

She had no husband, no children, and very few friends shesaw regularly. Her mother had died when she was twenty-four, and her father haddisappeared from her life long before that. She had an older brother, Daniel,who lived in another city, but their conversations had become increasinglylimited to birthdays and Christmas greetings.

It wasn't that Clara disliked people.

She simply found that life was easier when she didn't expecttoo much from them.

"You're going to lose your eyesight staring at thatclock."

Clara looked up.

Mrs. Evelyn Price stood near the counter, holding a smallumbrella in one hand and a leather handbag in the other.

At seventy-one, Evelyn was the bookshop's oldest customer.She had been coming there since she was a young woman and had developed thehabit of offering unsolicited advice to anyone unfortunate enough to standwithin conversational distance.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Price."

Afternoon, darling. You're closing early?"

"Not unless the rain decides to flood the entirestreet."

Evelyn chuckled.

"Don't tempt it. This city has a terrible sense ofhumour."

Clara smiled and began wrapping the book Evelyn hadpurchased.

It was an old collection of poems.

"Another collection?" Clara asked.

"One can never have too many poems."

Apparently.”

Evelyn examined the paper wrapping.

“You know, Clara, there’s something rather sad about aperson who spends all day surrounded by books and never seems to have time toread one.”

Clara raised an eyebrow.

“Are you suggesting I don’t read?”

“I’m suggesting you look like someone who’s waiting for Evelynpaid, tucked the book into her handbag, and headed towards the door.

Before leaving, she turned around.

"Oh, and Clara?"

"Yes?"

"Don't let your brother forget about you."

The words were so unexpected that Clara almost laughed.

"I'll try."

Evelyn disappeared into the rain.

The bell above the door rang softly.

Clara watched the empty doorway for a moment beforereturning to the counter.

She was just reaching for her coat when the telephone rang.

She glanced at the clock.

4:36 p.m..”

Whitmore & Sons. Good afternoon.”

Silence.

“Hello?”

A faint crackling sound came through the receiver.

Then a man’s voice.

“Is this Miss Clara Whitmore?”

“Yes. Who’s calling?”

Another pause.

I’m calling about a delivery.”

Clara frowned.

“A delivery?”

“Yes. A letter, actually.”

“Well, you’ve reached a bookshop. If you’re looking for thepost office, it’s two streets down.”

The man didn’t laugh.

“Miss Whitmore, the letter is addressed to you.”

Clara leaned against the counter.

“Who sent it?”

“I couldn’t tell you.”

“Then how did you get my number?”

“Your telephone number was written on the envelope.”

That was strange.

Very strange.

Where are you calling from?”

“Bellamy Street.”

Clara straightened.

She looked towards the shop window.

The rain was falling harder now. Across the street, a manstood beneath the awning of a closed tailor’s shop.

He wore a long charcoal-coloured coat and held a brownleather satchel.

Clara couldn’t see his face clearly.

“Are you outside?” she asked.

“Yes, Miss Whitmore.”

“Then why are you calling me? You could simply bring theletter inside.”

The man was quiet for several seconds.

Then he said something that made Clara’s expression change.

Because I was instructed not to hand it to anyone else.”

Clara glanced at the man through the window.

“Well, I’m the only person here.”

“I know.”

A cold sensation travelled slowly down her back.

“Excuse me?”

“I know you’re alone.”

The telephone clicked.

The line went dead.

Clara remained still, holding the receiver against her ear.

For several seconds, she listened to nothing.

Then she slowly replaced it.

Outside, the man had begun crossing the street.

He walked carefully, avoiding the puddles, his satchel heldclose against his side. When he reached the bookshop, he stopped beneath theawning and looked directly through the window.

Their eyes met.

He was perhaps in his late fifties, with silver hair, anarrow face, and an expression that seemed strangely tired.

He entered.

The little bell rang.

“Miss Whitmore?”

Clara nodded.

“Yes.”

The man placed his satchel on the counter and removed alarge cream-coloured envelope.

It was old-fashioned, with slightly yellowed edges and adark red wax seal.

There was no return address.

No postage stamp.

No indication of where it had come from.

Only her name.

MISS CLARA ELIZABETH WHITMORE.

The handwriting was elegant, deliberate, and unmistakablyold.

Clara stared at it.

“Who sent this?”

The man shook his head.

“I was paid to deliver it.”

“By whom?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re telling me someone paid you to deliver a letterwithout telling you who sent it?”

“That’s correct.”

“That makes very little sense.”

“I agree.”

He pushed the envelope towards her.

Clara didn't touch it.

"May I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"How long have you had it?"

The man's eyes moved towards the envelope.

"Thirty years."

Clara almost laughed.

But the expression on his face stopped her.

"I'm sorry?"

"Thirty years, Miss Whitmore."

He took a small folded piece of paper from his coat pocketand placed it beside the envelope.

"These were my instructions."

Clara unfolded the paper.

The message was brief.

Deliver this letter to Clara Elizabeth Whitmore on the sixthof November, 2026.

Not before.

Not after.

If she asks who sent it, tell her the sender is no longeralive.

At the bottom was a signature.

A. Whitmore.

Clara’s breathing became shallow.

She knew that handwriting.

She had seen it on birthday cards, old school reports,photographs, and the occasional note left on the kitchen table when she was achild.

It belonged to her mother.

Amelia Whitmore.

Her mother had been dead for eight years.

Clara looked up.

“Where did you get this?”

The deliveryman seemed uncomfortable.

“I told you. I was paid to keep it.”

“By my mother?”

“I cannot answer that.”

“Who paid you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re being deliberately unhelpful.”

“Miss Whitmore, I have done exactly what I was instructed todo. Nothing more.”

He closed his satchel.

Then, just before turning towards the door, he stopped.

“There’s one other thing.”

Clara looked at him.

“What?”

The man hesitated.

“When I received the letter, I was given specificinstructions about what to do if you were no longer living at this address.”

“And?”

He looked directly at her.

“I was told to find you.”

Clara frowned.

“Why?”

“Because the letter must be opened by you. No one else.”

He reached for the door.

“Have a good evening, Miss Whitmore.”

The bell rang as he stepped outside.

Clara stood behind the counter, staring at the envelope.

For a long time, she didn’t move.

Then she turned the envelope over.

The wax seal was intact.

There was something engraved into it.

A small bird with its wings spread, surrounded by a circleof tiny stars.

She recognised the symbol.

It had appeared on a silver pendant her mother wore almostevery day.

Clara swallowed.

Her mother had been buried eight years ago.

Yet somehow, thirty years earlier, she had arranged for aletter to be delivered to her daughter on this exact date.

The sixth of November.

Clara looked at the clock.

5:02 p.m.

Outside, the rain continued to fall.

She locked the front door, turned the sign to CLOSED, andwalked towards the small office at the back of the shop.

She placed the envelope on her desk.

For several minutes, she simply stared at it.

Then she reached for a pair of scissors.

The wax seal broke with a quiet crack.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded twice.

Clara unfolded it.

The first line was written in her mother's handwriting.

My dearest Clara,

Her eyes immediately filled with tears.

She sat down.

For a moment, she could almost hear her mother's voice.

That familiar warmth. That gentle way she pronounced hername.

Clara pressed her lips together andShe placed the envelopeon her desk.

For several minutes, she simply stared at it.

Then she reached for a pair of scissors.

The wax seal broke with a quiet crack.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded twice.

Clara unfolded it.

The first line was written in her mother’s handwriting.

My dearest Clara,

Her eyes immediately filled with tears.

She sat down.

For a moment, she could almost hear her mother’s voice.

That familiar warmth. That gentle way she pronounced hername.

Clara pressed her lips together and continued reading.

If you are reading this, then I have kept my promise.

I am sorry that I could not be there to explain everythingmyself.

There are things I should have told you when you wereyounger. Things I wanted to tell you when you became a woman. And things Idesperately hoped I would never have to tell you at all.

But there is something you must understand.

Your father did not abandon you.

Clara stopped.

The room seemed to grow unusually quiet.

She read the sentence again.

Then a third time.

Her father.

She hadn’t heard anyone speak seriously about him in years.

According to her mother, he had left when Clara was threeyears old. There had been disagreements, arguments, and eventually silence.

Her mother had always refused to discuss the details.

Clara had stopped asking.

She looked back at the letter.

And if you have been told that he died, then someone haslied to you.

Clara's fingers tightened around the paper.

A strange feeling settled in her chest.

She continued.

There is a reason I waited thirty years to send this letter.I cannot explain it all here, and I must ask you to forgive me for that.

But before you do anything else, I need you to find thephotograph hidden behind the mirror in your childhood bedroom.

Look carefully at the people standing beside me.

One of them is the reason your father disappeared.

Clara stopped reading.

Her childhood bedroom.

The house.

She hadn’t visited the old Whitmore family home in almostnine years.

It had been sold shortly after her mother’s funeral.

And the mirror...

She remembered it perfectly.

A tall, oval mirror with a dark wooden frame. Her mother hadinherited it from her grandmother, and it had stood against the wall oppositeClara’s bed for as long as she could remember.

Clara looked down again.

There was one final paragraph.

There is something else, my darling.

Whatever you do, do not trust the person who brings you thesecond letter.

Because that person will know your name before you tellthem.

The letter ended there.

No signature.

No explanation.

Just those words.

Clara sat motionless.

Then her telephone rang.

She looked towards it.

The sound seemed impossibly loud in the little office.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

She reached for the receiver.

“Hello?”

A woman’s voice answered.

Soft.

Calm.

And strangely familiar.

“Clara?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

A brief silence followed.

Then the woman spoke.

“I believe you received something from my mother today.”

Clara’s stomach tightened.

“Your mother?”

The woman exhaled.

“My name is Eleanor.”

Clara waited.

Then Eleanor said something that made her grip thetelephone.

“Your mother told me you would read the letter before six.”

Clara glanced at the clock.

5:49 p.m.

“How do you know about the letter?”

Another pause.

“Because I helped her write it.”

Clara felt the room tilt.

“What?”

“Clara, listen to me carefully. I don’t have much time.”

"Who are you?"

The woman's voice became quieter.

"Someone who has been waiting thirty years for you todiscover the truth."

Clara stood.

"How do you know my mother?"

But the woman didn't answer.

Instead, she asked a question.

"Did she mention the photograph?"

Clara said nothing.

"Clara?"

"Yes."

A sharp breath came through the receiver.

"Oh, God."

"What is it?"

The woman sounded frightened now.

Not mildly concerned.

Frightened.

"Then there's something you need to know."

"What?"

"Your mother wasn't supposed to send that letter."

Clara stared at the paper in her hand.

"Why not?"

The woman whispered:

"Because the person in that photograph has been deadfor thirty years."

The line went dead.

And somewhere outside the bookshop, a car door slammed.

Clara slowly turned towards the office window.

A black car was parked across the street.

Its headlights were off.

Someone was sitting in the driver's seat.

Watching the shop.

Clara looked down at her mother's letter one final time.

Then she noticed something she hadn't seen before.

At the very bottom of the page, almost hidden beneath thefold, were five handwritten words.

Words that appeared to have been added after the letter wasoriginally written.

He knows you have it.

Clara looked up.

The lights in the bookshop went out.

End of Chapter One.