A person spends their entire life writing letters they never send.
They never expect anyone to read them.
Years after they die, someone discovers the box containing every letter.
I wonder who opened it.
My father has always worked as a tailor.
He’s the kind of man who gets to work on time.
He loves what he does.
He loves his clients.
Now…
his hair has grayed a bit.
Sometimes it takes him a little longer to measure.
His hands aren’t as steady as they used to be.
His clients don’t seem to mind.
Some even bring him little gifts.
I think they know he’s earned their patience.
One afternoon he mentioned a man named Roberto.
Roberto worked for one of my father’s clients…
the local circus.
A few days later my father came home carrying a pair of trousers neatly folded over his arm.
He placed them on the kitchen table.
Next to them…
a little matchbox.
“Roberto gave me this.”
“Said he wouldn’t be needing it anymore.”
My father stared at the trousers for a moment.
He lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“Seems he moved on.”
I picked it up.
It felt a bit heavy for just being a matchbox.
I opened it.
No matches.
Just a small brass key.
Wrapped around it was a piece of masking tape.
Written in faded blue ink…
P.O. Box 365.
The post office wasn’t far.
For the next few days I kept the matchbox on my desk.
Every time I walked by it…
curiosity kept showing up.
But…
sometimes curiosity needs to be put away.
Roberto…
I hope you lived a greater life than you imagined.
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