For the past seventeen years, every wedding anniversary, Ella received a blue envelope from her husband, Daniel.

It was never handed to her in person. She would find it tucked into the most unexpected places — in her coat pocket, under her pillow, slipped between pages of the book she was currently reading. The envelope was always the same shade of navy, and the handwriting on the front simply said: “For Ella. Love, D.”

The first letter arrived on the morning after their wedding, hidden inside her coffee mug. Daniel had snuck it in sometime between their honeymoon flight and her early morning routine. It was full of hope — messy metaphors about forever, promises scribbled in excitement, dreams poured out like sunlight on paper.

After that, the tradition stuck.

Some years the letters were romantic. Others were funny, filled with silly doodles and inside jokes. On harder years — like when they lost their first pregnancy or when Daniel lost his job — the letters were quiet and steady. One read simply, “Even in the dark, I’ll be right beside you.”

Ella never responded with letters. She tried, once, on their fifth anniversary. She wrote a long, heartfelt note, folded it into a red envelope, and left it on Daniel’s nightstand. The next morning, it was still there — unopened.

He looked at it and smiled gently.

“You don’t have to write back,” he said. “You already speak to me every day.”

Life wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs. They built a world in a little yellow house on Maple Street. Raised two kids. Grew gray hair. Fought over burnt toast and leaky faucets. Loved each other in ways small and ordinary — the kind that builds decades.

Then came the hospital.

Daniel had a seizure while gardening. Tests revealed a mass in his brain. The diagnosis was grim. Six months, maybe less.

Ella sat beside him every day after that, holding his hand. Some days he could talk. Some days he couldn't. But she still spoke to him, read to him, brushed his hair, and told him about the neighborhood gossip — the dog that chased a squirrel into the supermarket, the twins down the road who tried to sell mud pies as “organic skincare.”

One week before their eighteenth anniversary, Daniel slipped into a coma.

She sat beside him as usual, whispering stories into the sterile quiet of the hospital room. Then, one morning, she returned home to shower and feed the cat. As she opened the medicine cabinet, a blue envelope fluttered out and landed on the floor.

Her breath caught.

With trembling hands, she opened it.

“My dearest Ella,

If you’re reading this, I’m likely not able to say anything out loud. And though I know your voice will still find mine, I wanted to make sure my words found you, too.

I had planned to give this to you on our anniversary. But just in case, I’m hiding it early (don’t be mad I used your lipstick drawer).

Eighteen years with you has been a lifetime of luck. I would live this life a thousand times just to meet you again. I don’t know what comes after, but I hope — if there’s anything beyond — that I’ll find you there, too.

Don’t mourn too long. I’ve had everything. You gave it to me.

Love always,
Daniel.”_

She dropped to the floor, holding the letter against her chest, sobbing.

Three days later, Daniel passed.

At the funeral, Ella wore blue — the same shade as the envelopes. People asked why, but she didn’t explain. It was theirs. A private language.

Years went by.

The children grew up. The house became quieter. On the tenth anniversary of his death, Ella opened the wooden box where she had saved every blue envelope. She reread them all in one sitting — laughing, crying, remembering.

That night, she wrote her first letter to him since that red envelope he never opened.

“My love,

Ten years today. The house is still full of you. The drawer still creaks. The garden still grows wild like you liked it.

Sometimes, when I wake up, I still turn to your side of the bed and say, ‘Good morning.’

I know you said not to mourn too long. But some parts of me will always ache for you.

Still, I smile more than I cry now. I think you'd like that.

I’ll find you again. Wait for me.

Love,
Ella.”_

She slipped the letter into a navy blue envelope.

And placed it on her own nightstand.