For thirty years, Eleanor thought she knew her husband, Richard. He was quiet, meticulous, and always just a little… elusive. Not in a sinister way, but in a manner that left her constantly wondering if she’d ever truly reached the core of who he was.
After his sudden passing, Eleanor found herself alone in their modest home, surrounded by memories and silence. She waited weeks before gathering the strength to go through his things. His study, his closet, the garage—everything neat, categorized. Nothing too surprising. Until she entered the bedroom.
She sat on the floor beside their bed, brushing off dust and old tissue boxes. Then, while adjusting the edge of the bedspread, she noticed something—an odd shadow beneath the bedframe, slightly raised floorboards, and a faint metallic edge peeking out from the corner.
Curious, she crouched lower.
There, embedded into the wooden slats, was a latch.
Her breath caught.
She pulled it open.
Inside was a locked metal box, heavy and cold. Her hands shook as she retrieved it. The key—she realized—was likely one she’d always seen on his keychain but never known the use for. She rushed to the drawer where she had placed it after the funeral.
Click.
Inside the box were letters. Dozens. All addressed to her. Some yellowed, others fresh. Each dated, beginning from before their wedding day… and ending just a week before his death.
With trembling hands, she opened the first one.
My dearest Eleanor,
I’m writing this because I’m too much of a coward to say it out loud…
Every letter was a confession. Of fear. Of love. Of things he never dared to speak: how terrified he was of not being enough, of losing her, of the guilt he carried over a childhood accident that had haunted him since he was twelve.
One letter described a miscarriage Eleanor had during their early marriage — something she never knew he blamed himself for, believing stress from a secret job loss had triggered it.
Another revealed he had written poetry about her for decades, never shared, fearing it was “too soft.”
By the time she reached the final letter, Eleanor was sobbing.
If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. But I hope you know now — you were my everything. I just didn’t always know how to show it.
Inside that last envelope was a sketch of her, hand-drawn, lovingly detailed. On the back, he had written:
Even in silence, you were my loudest heartbeat.