Last spring, Chen Yu found a small second-hand bookshop at the corner of a quiet street near his school. The shop was narrow and a little dusty, but the owner, an old man with warm eyes, always welcomed him kindly.
Chen Yu loved reading, so he spent his Saturday afternoons there. One day, he picked up an old book of poems. When he opened it, something fell out — a yellow envelope, folded twice, with a name and an address written on it in beautiful handwriting.
"Dear Wang Lin," the letter began, "by the time you read this letter, you will have moved to another city." It was written thirty years ago by a girl called Su Qian to her best friend. In the letter, she thanked Wang Lin for three years of friendship, described the small things they had done together, and asked her not to forget the tree they had planted behind the school.
Chen Yu felt curious and a little sad. The letter had never been mailed. Why? Had the girl simply forgotten it inside the book? He showed it to the owner, who shook his head slowly. The book had come from a box of old things, and there was no way to know their story.
That evening, Chen Yu could not stop thinking about it. Finally, he decided to do something. He took photos of the letter, covered the address, and posted them online, asking if anyone knew Su Qian or Wang Lin.
Two weeks later, a middle-aged woman replied. "Wang Lin is my mother," she wrote. "She is now a teacher in Nanjing. She has kept every letter Su Qian ever sent her — except the last one, which never arrived. She has wondered about it for thirty years."
The letter finally reached its owner that weekend. When Wang Lin read it, she cried. Then she smiled and said, "The tree we planted must be very tall now." Later that autumn, the two friends, both grey-haired, visited their old school together. The tree was indeed tall — tall enough for two people to sit under.
Sometimes a small, lost thing can find its way home again. A book, a letter, a memory — they wait quietly for the right person to connect them.