The Rooftop Letters

**Chapter one

The Forgotten Garden The rooftop had its own quiet, the kind that came from being claimed and lived in. It wasn’t brittle or empty. It was thick and patient, like it had waited long enough to let the world speak elsewhere. Eli pushed open the door; it groaned once and swung outward, spilling cool evening air over him. The scent of mint and dust clung to the space, stubborn and familiar. Ivy curled along the railing, reaching for the last light, while a cracked planter sat near the bench, ceramic split like some silent fracture in time.

He climbed the stairs slowly, sketchbook tucked under his arm, fingers cold from the effort. The skyline spread before him, bruised purple fading into deep blue. Office windows blinked like scattered stars, and somewhere below, the city hummed, distant and muffled. Eli didn’t draw. He didn’t write. He just sat and let the wind brush against his face, listening for something unnamed, something he hadn’t realized he’d been waiting for.

Then he noticed it. A small envelope, tucked beneath the planter, its edges curled and worn. No name, only a single initial: **M.**

Eli froze, heart bumping in the quiet. The rooftop had always been his place, a room in the sky where silence belonged. Finding this letter felt strange, intrusive, but also urgent in a way he didn’t expect. He reached for it.

The paper was soft from the weather, ink blurred just enough to make it look alive. The handwriting was careful, deliberate, like someone had taken their time, letting their fingers linger over each stroke. Eli unfolded the letter, and with each line, the words pressed against him, familiar and strange at once.

> To whoever finds this—

> I don’t know your name, or if you’ll read this. Maybe you’ll toss it aside. Maybe you’ll never see it. But I had to write it anyway.

> There’s something about this rooftop—the way the wind carries silence, the way the city hums below like it’s keeping secrets. I come here when the world feels too loud, when I need to remember who I am beneath all the noise.

> I used to believe love was something you earned. That you had to be brave, or loud enough, or perfect in some way. But lately, I wonder if love is just… showing up. Even when scared. Even when invisible.

> So here I am. Showing up.

> If you’re out there—if you’ve ever felt like you were too much or not enough—I hope this letter finds you. I hope it makes you feel a little less alone.

> I’ll leave another one soon.

> —M

He read it slowly, then again. There was more than the words—the ache beneath them, the kind that pooled under your ribs and pressed up your throat. The kind that made you want to respond even before you knew what to say.

Eli folded the letter carefully, smoothed the creases with his thumb, and tucked it into his hoodie pocket. The wind chime above the bench moved once, a soft metallic sigh, and then it was still again. He stayed a while longer, just breathing, letting the quiet absorb him. Something had arrived, and somehow it felt like everything might shift.

That night, he didn’t sleep. The letter sat on his desk, edges curled from the rooftop wind. He reread it, fingertips brushing the ink as though it might reveal some hidden meaning if he touched it just right. He didn’t know M, but he knew the ache behind the words. He knew what it meant to show up scared, to speak without certainty that someone would answer.

Morning came pale and soft, washing the city in quiet gold. Eli sat at the kitchen table, blank page in front of him, pen poised, tea cold and untouched. He didn’t know what to write. He didn’t know how to start. But he began with truth.

*M—

* *I found your letter yesterday.

* *I wasn’t looking for anything. I just needed air. I needed silence. But I found you instead.

* *I don’t know who you are, or what brought you here. But your words felt like they were written for me.

* *I’ve been quiet for a long time. Not because I had nothing to say, but because I forgot how.

* *Your letter reminded me.

* *So I’m writing back. Not because I have answers. Not because I’m brave. But because I want to show up too.

* *I’ll leave this where I found yours. Maybe you’ll see it. Maybe you won’t. But I’ll be here.

* *—E*

He folded the letter with care, slid it into an envelope, and wrote **E** on the back. His hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the quiet thrill of stepping outside himself.

He climbed the rooftop stairs before sunset, heart thrumming with each step. The wind was gentle, the air carrying the city’s distant hum. Kneeling by the planter, he tucked the envelope underneath, then sat on the bench for a moment. He didn’t linger. Not yet. He just left it behind, a soft whisper written in ink, and walked away.

Later, in his small apartment, Eli sat on the edge of his bed. The envelope was gone. The weight of it lingered in his fingers, the choice, the words, the quiet courage it took to respond. Outside, the city moved on without him. But here, in his quiet room, something had shifted.

He wasn’t used to being brave—not like this, without armor, without a performance. But the letter had asked for something different. Not strength. Just presence.

He wondered if M would find it, if they would read it, if they would feel the same pull he had felt. He didn’t expect a reply. But he hoped. That small, fragile hope was enough to dull the edges of silence.

He pulled his sketchbook onto his lap and began to draw. Not the rooftop. Not the bench. Just a single envelope half-hidden beneath a planter, the wind chime above it, and the faint suggestion of someone walking away. He shaded gently, trying not to disturb the moment.

Then he closed the book, turned off the light, and let the quiet settle around him.

✨ *Author’s Note* Thank you for reading this opening chapter. Writing this story feels like stepping into a new room inside myself, and I’m still learning how my voice sounds here. Your presence makes the space feel less empty, and for that I’m deeply grateful.

**Chapter Two– Eli

The day before......

Eli hadn’t been talking much lately. It wasn’t that he didn’t have things to say; words had simply started to feel unsafe, fragile in a way that made him hesitant to speak at all. Every time he tried, his thoughts came out bent, misread, or twisted into something he hadn’t meant. Over time, silence became easier, safer, almost comforting in its predictability.

His apartment mirrored that quiet. Small, stubborn, clinging to whatever had been there last: a faint trace of mint tea, the dry smell of old paper, books soft from being read too often. Sketchbooks leaned against one another, some filled, some untouched, waiting for him to remember how to use them. Drawing had once been second nature, a language as instinctive as breathing. Now the pencil felt heavy in his hand, alien, as if he’d lost the ability to speak that part of himself.

He is in his twenties but sometimes felt older, as if the q