DWC Short Story: Timeless Letter

Samuel Evans had always found solace in the rhythmic clinks and clatters of typewriters. The steady tap of keys, the reassuring snap of levers—the world outside may have raced ahead, but in his small repair shop, nestled in a forgotten corner of the city, time remained faithful. He found comfort in this ritual, his hands stained with the dark ink of a bygone era, surrounded by stacks of typewriters—each a relic of a world that no longer existed. 

It was a rainy afternoon when the sound of the shop door creaking open broke his routine. An elderly woman entered, her frame thin but graceful, and cradled in her arms was an old Underwood typewriter. She had a quiet smile, one that spoke of memories long kept.

"This was my mother's," she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of years. "It hasn’t worked for decades."

Samuel promised to do what he could, intrigued by the age of the machine. After all, it was what he did best—mend what was broken, repair what had been forgotten. With practised hands, he set to work, carefully opening the case, savouring the familiar sound of the metal clips and the musty smell of aged leather. But as he dismantled the typewriter’s heart, something strange caught his eye.

A folded piece of paper was wedged between the rollers and typebars, hidden there for who knows how long. Its edges were frayed and yellowed with time, but otherwise, it seemed remarkably preserved. Samuel hesitated before gently removing it, unfolding the brittle parchment with care.

The ink, still vibrant, was a delicate shade of blue, and the handwriting, though elegant, was unmistakably intimate.

But what made Samuel’s heart falter was the very first line:

"To the one who will mend this machine, know that I love you. The year is 2034."

He blinked in confusion, feeling as though the ground had shifted beneath him. This couldn’t be real—this letter couldn’t exist. It was a paradox, the letter appearing impossibly old yet referencing a time decades ahead. His thoughts raced, his heart thudding loudly in his chest. But despite the impossibility, something in the words beckoned him to read on. 

"You don’t know me yet, but I know you. I’ve watched your hands breathe life into these forgotten keys seen the way you smile when you think no one is looking. I know the patience in your fingers as you mend what others leave behind. And I know your heart aches for something—someone—out of reach. You long for connection beyond the mechanics of your work. And I’m writing this because in ten years, I will walk into your shop, and you’ll fix this machine for me. But more than that, you will fix a piece of my heart that has remained broken."

His hands trembled as he turned to the final line, one that seemed to vibrate with a strange, undeniable certainty.

"Wait for me. I’ll find you. I promise. —Love, from the future."

Samuel sat back, staring at the letter as though it might evaporate before his eyes. His mind reeled with questions. How did it end up in a machine that hadn’t been opened in decades? How could someone from the future know him?

The days that followed were a blur of obsession. He tried to track down the history of the Underwood, but the elderly woman who brought it in knew little.

Samuel couldn’t let go of the mystery that had landed in his hands. The woman in the letter haunted his thoughts, her words dancing in his mind as if carried by the wind.

He scoured archives, looking up old newspapers and tracing any mention of the Underwood typewriter’s previous owners, but came up short. Still, he didn’t give up.

He visited estate sales and antique shops, questioning collectors about the origins of the machine and its previous life. His obsession grew deeper, but no one could provide answers that brought him closer to the woman in the letter.

One evening, while combing through a forgotten stack of letters in a library basement, he discovered a journal from a woman named Eleanor Pierce—a typewriter enthusiast who had written extensively about her life.

As he flipped through the pages, his breath caught. There, written in delicate handwriting, was a mention of a letter she had crafted—a letter for someone she hadn’t yet met, someone who would understand her heart.

Samuel became convinced that Eleanor was the woman from the letter. Determined to find out more about her, he tracked down her descendants, following every lead until he found himself standing on the doorstep of a house on the outskirts of the city. An elderly man answered the door, and when Samuel explained his reason for coming, the man’s eyes softened.  

"My grandmother always spoke of a letter she’d written for a man she believed she would meet in the future," the man said, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "She said it was a letter written in love, waiting for the right person to find it."

Though Eleanor had passed away, Samuel’s heart stirred at the connection. Could it be that her words had transcended time, just as the letter had promised?

In time, he began to notice the smallest details from the letter—how it described him with unsettling precision. The way he smiled when he finished a repair, the quiet longing he felt for a connection that always seemed out of reach. But most of all, it was the feeling that clung to him like a whisper: that this letter wasn’t just a message from the past or future, but from a destiny he had yet to meet.

As the years inched toward 2034, a strange anticipation filled his life. What if she never came? What if the letter was a cruel joke, or worse, a fantasy that had consumed him for nothing?

He tried to temper his hope, but as autumn approached that year, he felt something shift, an invisible thread tugging at his heart.

And then, on a crisp October afternoon, the door to his shop jingled. 

He looked up, his breath catching in his throat. There, standing in the doorway, was a woman with a soft blue coat and hair that framed her face like the changing leaves. In her arms, she held an old Underwood typewriter.

Time seemed to still.

“I was told you’re the best at fixing these,” she said, her voice gentle yet filled with something unspoken.

She set the typewriter down on the counter, her touch tender as if she was placing more than just a machine in his care. 

Samuel’s heart pounded as he struggled to find his voice. The letter flashed in his mind, its every word a prophecy coming to life before his eyes. He wanted to ask her everything—her name, if she had written it, if she had known him before this moment.

But all he managed to say was, "I’m Samuel."

Her eyes, filled with quiet understanding, met his. "I know," she whispered. "I’ve been waiting for you." 

In that moment, the air between them seemed to shimmer. Samuel reached for the typewriter, his fingers brushing hers, and suddenly, everything made sense. The years of wondering, the loneliness that had clung to him—it all fell away. He didn’t need to ask if she was the one who had written the letter, because in her gaze, in the warmth of her touch, he already knew.

The woman who walked into his shop wasn’t just anyone—she was everything the letter had promised. Her name was Evelyn, and as they talked, the truth unfolded. Though she hadn’t written the letter herself, she had found it in her grandmother’s attic, hidden inside an old journal. "I wasn’t sure what it meant," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I felt drawn to it. It was like the words were meant for me, and now… meeting you, I think they were."

From that day on, Samuel and Evelyn’s connection deepened. They were kindred spirits, both with a love for the old-world charm of typewriters and stories that bridged past and present. They spent their days together in Samuel’s shop, restoring machines and sharing their lives with one another.

Evelyn was a writer, and with Samuel’s encouragement, she began working on a novel—a story of love, time, and fate, much like their own. Samuel, no longer mending machines alone, found a new rhythm in life. He discovered that the letter had been right all along—fixing the typewriter had led him to someone who would help heal his heart. 

Together, they built a life filled with quiet moments, the clatter of typewriter keys, and love letters they exchanged daily. Their love wasn’t ordinary, but then again, neither was the way they had found each other. As the seasons passed, Samuel no longer questioned the how or why.

He had spent years searching for answers, but all along, love had been waiting for him, patiently crossing the boundaries of time.