Page 127 - B. Ing_Antologi Cerpen Xl-6
P. 127
The Last Letter
By: Bernadeta Metarosa
Clara sat by the window, her fingers wrapped
around a warm cup of tea. The rain had begun to fall
gently, like whispers from the sky. It had been two
months since her grandfather passed away, and yet, the
house still felt full of him—his books, his scent, his quiet
humming.
He had been the only family Clara had left. After
losing her parents in a car accident when she was nine,
her grandfather had taken her in without hesitation. He
was stern, yet kind. A man of few words, but when he
spoke, his voice carried wisdom like the rustle of old
pages.
That afternoon, as she was cleaning the attic—a
task she had postponed for weeks—she found a small
126
