It was pitch dark with not a hint of movement, the fragile and old man stirred on his barely made bed and slowly woke up in the stiffening cold. He had no one to talk to or no one even to spare a smile for him, but every one around the neighbourhood was aware of his presence, though silent and not disturbing. They were always eager to know about his peculiar behaviour of taking a long stroll to some place not known to anyone except him and returning back only after noon. And they were certain that he wasn't working for anyone in the fields. He had his own little farm, 2 scantily fed cows and an almost ruined shack to sleep at night. Yet, he went there each day, in rains, in the darkest of dawns and every other odd day.It was known to a very few in the village, that he did have a daughter who had long forgotten him and deserted him after her mother died. He had not recieved a single letter or a couple of flowers from her, and he never uttered her name even to his closest neighbour. On a dreary and rainy night, the old man had his last breath of life and was coffined in his grave. The very next day, there was a letter, rather a tiny note, addressed to a name which had never been uttered before. It read:
Dear Father,
Sorry.I do not want to recieve any of your letters anymore.
Penelope
It was laid on the new grave and the man was relieved of his last burden on earth.
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