Chapter 17: Unfinished Conversation

David didn't sleep the night after reading Mavia's letter to Zayan.

He thought he would. He thought something about hearing those words—seeing them in Mavia's own handwriting, folded carefully in Zayan's pocket all this time—would offer him peace. But instead, it opened something else: a flood of thoughts he wasn't prepared to name.

By 5 a.m., he sat on the porch wrapped in an old blanket, a mug of tea gone cold in his hands. The world around him was still half-asleep, the sky barely pale, as though dawn hadn't yet made up its mind. Behind him, the house creaked softly—its wooden bones shifting like it too remembered.

The wind smelled faintly of jasmine. A neighbor's dog barked once, then went quiet. Somewhere across the street, sprinklers clicked on. Life was beginning again—but inside David, something was still unraveling.

He traced his fingers along the rim of the mug, then set it down on the step. His eyes burned, but no tears came.

It was as if his body had grown too used to holding things in.

Later that morning, David found Meher in the kitchen. She was humming softly, flipping toast with one hand and cradling a chipped mug of coffee in the other. Her hair was tied back with a pencil, and flour dusted the edge of her sleeve.

She looked up as he entered and offered a tired smile. "You didn't sleep."

He didn't deny it. "Zayan gave me the letter."

She didn't need clarification.

"How did it feel?" she asked.

David sat down at the table. The chair creaked under his weight. "Like hearing someone say goodbye with their whole heart."

"Do you think he forgave Zayan?"

David stared at the table. The wood grain blurred.

"No. But I think… he never blamed him. Even when he probably should have."

Meher placed the toast on a plate and slid it toward him. She sat beside him and was quiet for a long moment.

"That's who he was," she finally said. "He carried everyone's feelings. Even when they couldn't carry his."

David nodded. "And somehow, he still had room for more."

Meher's eyes welled. She looked away quickly and reached for the kettle.

"Want more tea?"

He didn't answer. But she poured a second cup anyway.

That afternoon, David found himself in Mavia's room again. The soft lavender scent lingered faintly in the air, though the window had been open for days.

The box of memories sat at the foot of the bed.

He opened it gently, as if afraid of disturbing what it held.

There were sketches—some half-finished, some too precise to look at for long. Notes written in looping cursive. The camp flyer from their last summer trip. A movie ticket stub. A photo booth strip of the three of them from two years ago, Mavia in the middle, grinning with a crooked smile.

David ran his fingers over each item like he was blind and learning to see through touch.

And then—an envelope.

Still sealed.

His breath caught.

There was no name on the front. No date. But the handwriting was unmistakable. Mavia's.

He turned it over. Checked inside the flap. Nothing. No label, no hint.

But it felt heavier than just paper.

With careful hands, he opened it.

Inside, a single page.

I don't know who this is for.

Maybe David. Maybe Meher. Maybe no one.

Maybe just the part of me that still wanted to believe someone would find it.

I'm tired of being a secret.

I'm tired of pretending that silence is strength.

I've spent so long trying to disappear without anyone noticing, I forgot how much it hurts to want someone to stop you.

If you find this, I hope it's because you were still listening.

—M

David stared at the letter.

This wasn't a goodbye.

It wasn't a love letter or a confession.

It was something rawer.

A scream written in silence.

He folded the letter back with shaking fingers and placed it beside the others. For a moment, he simply sat there, the weight of the letter pressing against him like a hand on his chest.

He remembered a day—years ago—when they were fourteen and had taken turns shouting into an empty tunnel on a hiking trip. Mavia had gone quiet before it was his turn. When David asked why, Mavia just shrugged and said, "Sometimes the echo doesn't come back."

David finally understood what he meant.

That evening, David lit a candle at his desk. The flickering glow painted long shadows on the walls, and the hum of the ceiling fan filled the quiet.

He opened his laptop.

The cursor blinked, patient.

Then he began typing.

Sometimes the letters we don't send say the most.

He left behind something that wasn't a final note—it was a question.

Do you see me?

We talk so much about hearing people when they're in pain. But what about when they whisper? What about when they leave quiet clues and torn pages?

He didn't want to be a tragedy.

He just didn't want to vanish.

He titled the post: Unfinished Conversations

Then he clicked publish.

The timestamp read 2:34 a.m.

And for the first time in days, David leaned back in his chair and exhaled fully, like letting go of something he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

By sunrise, the post had been read more than 5,000 times.

The notifications poured in—comments, messages, private replies from strangers across the country.

David read them all.

"I left letters no one ever read. Thank you for reading his."

"This helped me understand my sister's silence. I wish I had this before."

"Please don't stop. You're not just telling his story. You're telling mine too."

Some were confessions. Others were apologies. A few were simply acknowledgments.

"I'm still here."

"I'm still listening."

David replied to as many as he could. He created a new folder on his desktop titled Echoes and saved the most heartfelt ones.

He knew he couldn't carry all their stories—but he could witness them.

Meher joined him that afternoon in the hallway.

They had started hanging up some of Mavia's sketches and quotes. The mirror from his desk—the one with peeling stickers and a corner fogged with age—now sat above the console table. Around it, they arranged messages people had sent in.

Little fragments of grief. Of hope. Of remembrance.

David held one in his hand now. A girl from Ohio had sent a printout of a poem she wrote about her brother who had passed. The last line read:

Even in silence, I hear your song.

He handed it to Meher.

She read it, then placed it beneath the mirror.

David stepped back, eyes on the wall.

He whispered, "We're still listening, Mavia."

And in the glow of the fading day, it felt—for the briefest second—like Mavia was listening too.

End of Chapter 17