Max had always been a quiet boy. He was polite, kept to himself, and never caused trouble. But lately, something strange had been happening after school. For the past week, the teachers had noticed a peculiar pattern — Max would leave the classroom every day at the same time and walk to the back of the schoolyard, a place so secluded that no one else ever went.
Curiosity got the better of the teachers, and they began to watch him from a distance. Max would kneel down in the same spot every day, his small hands digging furiously into the earth. He didn’t seem to mind the dirt under his nails or the bruises on his arms. Ten minutes would pass, and then, with great care, he would pull something out of his backpack, gently place it in the hole, and cover it back up with the dirt. He would smooth over the surface like nothing had ever been disturbed, stand up, and leave without a word.
At first, they assumed it was just a childish game. But the eerie precision with which Max performed this ritual every day made them uneasy. It wasn’t normal, and the teachers began to wonder what was really going on. Why was he so obsessed with this spot? What was he hiding?
One afternoon, Ms. Reynolds, a compassionate but worried teacher, decided she couldn’t ignore it any longer. She waited until the bell rang and then quietly followed Max, making sure to stay hidden behind the trees. Her heart raced as she watched him head to the familiar spot at the back of the yard.
Max knelt down, began digging with his hands, and then took out a small, crinkled plastic bag from his backpack. With great care, he placed the contents into the hole, and for a moment, Ms. Reynolds thought she saw a flash of something metallic — maybe a toy or a strange trinket. As Max smoothed the dirt over, she could see the determination in his face.
Unable to take it anymore, Ms. Reynolds stepped out from behind the trees and called to him, her voice stern but gentle.
“Max… What are you doing here?”
Max froze, his body tense as if he had been caught in the middle of something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. His eyes widened with fear, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, with a whisper so soft she could barely hear it, he spoke.
“I’m… I’m burying the letters.”
“Letters?” she asked, her heart pounding in her chest.
Max nodded solemnly and reached into his backpack. He pulled out a small, worn envelope, its edges frayed. He opened it slowly and handed it to Ms. Reynolds. Inside was a letter, written in childish handwriting, its ink smeared slightly, as if it had been read and re-read countless times. It was a letter to his mother.
“I don’t want her to forget,” Max said, his voice cracking. “She told me that she would be back. She promised. But I don’t think she is coming back.”
Ms. Reynolds felt a pang of sadness in her chest as she realized what Max had been doing. Every day, he had been writing letters to his mother, burying them in the hope that somehow, they would reach her — wherever she was. He was desperately holding onto a promise that had been broken.
The teacher crouched down beside him, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. She didn’t know what to say, but she knew that this was a cry for help, a desperate attempt to hold on to the memory of someone who had left.
“Max,” she whispered, “you don’t have to bury your feelings. You can talk about them. I’m here for you.”
Max looked up at her, his tear-filled eyes softening just slightly. He finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Do you think she’ll come back if I keep writing?”
Ms. Reynolds didn’t know the answer, but she knew that the first step was giving him the support he needed to heal — and perhaps, just maybe, help him realize that he didn’t have to bury his pain anymore.
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