Signed, Your Ghost

The first letter arrived on a Tuesday.

Mara found it tucked neatly into her mailbox, nestled between bills and a coupon booklet. There was no return address—only her name handwritten in a script that looked strangely familiar. The envelope was pale gray, sealed with an old-fashioned wax stamp bearing the impression of a feather.

She opened it on the kitchen counter, next to a half-drunk cup of coffee and a vase of wilting sunflowers.

> Dear Mara,

You left the bedroom light on last night. It’s okay—I didn’t mind.

It’s strange, watching you sleep. I used to sleep beside you. Do you remember that? I’d count your breaths when I couldn’t count sheep. You always exhaled in threes. I never told you.

I’m still here. Just quieter.

Signed, your ghost.



Mara stared at the letter for a long while, her fingers trembling slightly. She assumed it was a joke—some elaborate prank. But no one knew about the breath-counting. No one could’ve.

She folded the letter and shoved it into a drawer. By Thursday, she had nearly convinced herself it was a one-time thing. A trick of memory. Maybe she had written it herself, during one of her sleepless nights, and forgotten.

But then came the second.

> Dear Mara,

You made pancakes this morning. You forgot the vanilla, but they were still good. I remember how you used to hum while flipping them—“Moon River.” You don’t hum anymore.

I wish I could eat with you. Sit across from you like before. But the table only sets for one now.

Still, thank you for making them. The smell reminded me of Sunday.

Signed, your ghost.



It had been two years since Leo died.

Two years since the accident. The sharp turn. The tree. The endless silence that followed. She had buried him with his favorite blue scarf and the book he never finished.

Mara had tried to move on. She even dated someone briefly, a man named Owen who worked at the bookstore downtown. But she always ended things early—before she got too close. Before she had to explain the shadow that still sat at her table or the phantom weight beside her in bed.

Now, the letters came once a week.

They never asked her for anything. They were simply observations. Memories. Moments only Leo could’ve known. The smell of their favorite candle. The way she cried at commercials. The time she broke her toe dancing in the kitchen.

Each one ended the same way:

> Signed, your ghost.



At first, they terrified her. Then they made her ache. But over time, the fear dulled, replaced by something else—comfort, perhaps. Connection.

She started writing back.

Nothing elaborate—just notes scribbled on napkins or the backs of receipts, left on the windowsill or taped to the mirror. She never knew if they were read, but somehow, she felt less alone.

On the anniversary of his death, she made his favorite dinner—spaghetti with too much garlic and a bottle of wine neither of them could ever finish. She lit a candle. She poured two glasses.

The next morning, she found a final letter.

> Dear Mara,

Thank you. For everything. For the dinners and the dancing, the laughter and the late-night walks. For remembering me. For not forgetting yourself.

You’re stronger than you think. You always were.

I’ve been holding on, afraid you needed me to. But I think you’re ready now. Not to forget—but to live.

You’ll always carry me, but you don’t have to wait for me anymore.

You are not alone. You never were.

Goodbye, my love.

Signed, your ghost.



Mara wept, but it wasn’t the same kind of sorrow. It was softer now, almost sweet.

She tucked the letter into a box with the others. Then she opened the windows, letting in the morning air. The sun spilled across the floor like forgiveness.

And for the first time in years, she felt light enough to move forward.