Letters to Autumn

𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗎𝖾

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Prologue
2039

In 2021, Isaac's daughter gave birth to a girl named Autumn. Today, Autumn turned sixteen-a day ripe with promise and the fleeting pang of nostalgia. She wandered into her grandfather's old attic, her favorite sanctuary, a realm filled with dust motes dancing in slanted sunlight. Each box held whispers of the past, secrets waiting to be uncovered. As she rummaged through a particularly stubborn stack of boxes, her fingers brushed against a delicate porcelain box. With a careless flick of her wrist, it slipped from her grasp and shattered, its shards scattering like lost dreams across the attic floor.
But amidst the ruins, something caught her eye. Nestled within the wreckage was a bundle of brown, aged paper. With curiosity bubbling over, she carefully unfurled one of the letters, revealing flowing cursive handwriting that spelled out her name-Autumn.
"Mom! Mom!" she shouted, her heart racing. "What are these letters? Who's Autumn?"
Winter, her mother, appeared in the doorway, her expression shifting from concern to gentle amusement. "You are Autumn, silly," she replied, a hint of warmth in her voice. But as she took the letters from her daughter, a frown knitted her brow. "These letters are from 1988."
Winter's fingers trembled slightly as she scanned the delicate script. Her mind raced, but then it stalled, bewildered by what she read. "My father never knew an Autumn," she murmured, almost to herself. "He's been married to my mother, Bianca, since 1988."
"Let's go back to the attic," Autumn urged, excitement flickering in her eyes. "Maybe there's more."
Together, they climbed the creaky stairs back to the attic, the air thick with dust and memories. Winter pulled down a faded album, the cover worn and brittle, and opened it to reveal pictures of her parents' wedding day. The date, January 17, 1988, was emblazoned on the brittle paper. But as they turned the pages, the back of the album broke away, revealing another letter tucked inside. With hearts pounding in unison, they both reached for the fragile note, unfolding it carefully as if it might shatter like the porcelain box.

January 17, 1988

I am officially married. I don't understand why arranged marriages exist. They're cruel. Bianca doesn't speak much, and when she does, we argue. We've only known each other for a week, and not a single conversation has passed without conflict. She is so cold, like winter, with her platinum hair, pale skin, and icy blue eyes. I don't like winter. I prefer brown hair and warm, brown eyes. I long for Autumn; it is my favorite season. I wish I could be with someone who embodies the beauty of that season. Stuck in this house with this woman, all I have left is my writing. It is my only escape, a way to weave a world of my own. I can imagine being with someone who reminds me of the beautiful hues of fall, the warmth of the sun in October, the rustling of leaves underfoot.

With each word, they sank deeper into his heart-his sorrow, his dreams, and the stark reality he faced. Winter's gaze flickered to Autumn, a mix of confusion and empathy swirling in her chest.

Isaac didn't receive the love story he always craved. Instead, he found himself entangled in the opposite-a union that felt more like a prison than a promise. His letters had become his refuge, a landscape painted with colors of longing and imagination. Autumn had never existed beyond the ink on the page; she was a figment of hope, a mirage he chased through the bitterness of his cold marriage to Bianca. Every romantic notion, every poetic whisper of love, was a mere fabrication. In truth, there had been no golden leaves or soft breezes shared with a beloved. Yet, within the confines of his mind, she was as real as the air he breathed, as vibrant as the fall leaves that danced in the wind. Yet in his heart, Isaac clung to the beauty of his fantasy, believing fiercely in a love that warmed his soul even in the coldest of nights.
He filled the pages with the warmth he could not find in his life, pouring his soul into letters that reflected a world he yearned for-a world where the sun kissed the earth in golden hues, where laughter echoed through the trees, where love wrapped him in a soft embrace. To him, Autumn was everything; she represented the essence of life's beauty, a stark contrast to the frozen reality of his existence. He never met her, never held her hand, never told her he loved her or basked in the glow of her laughter, but that didn't matter. Autumn lived on in the letters he penned, in the dreams he nurtured.

As Winter and her daughter processed the weight of the past, they felt the chill of their father and grandfather's heartache, yet they also felt the flicker of hope he had nurtured. The letters, while steeped in sorrow, revealed a truth about the human heart-that even in despair, there lies a longing for love, for connection, for the beauty that life can hold.
And so, as they stood in that attic, surrounded by echoes of the past, the name Autumn took on a new meaning. No longer just a name from a letter, it became a symbol of hope-a reminder that love, even when imagined, could breathe life into the heart, giving it purpose and warmth, even in the coldest of winters.

"I hope I can find someone who loves me the way Grandpa loved Autumn." Autumn whispered.
"Idem." Her mother replied, pulling her into an embrace.