Mr. Smith couldn’t hold on much longer. He only had a few days left to live. I don’t know much about his condition, but it’s clear that he might have cancer or other terminal illnesses.

One day I encountered something in his room. An envelope containing a letter to someone named Agatha. He has never mentioned anything about this Agatha, but whoever she is, she seems to be a old lover.

I have read the letter to Agatha that day. Mr. Smith mentioned meeting her back in January of 1957 in New York. He was smitten with her at all times. No matter what happened to her, Mr. Smith made sure that Agatha had a safe and healthy life.

It wasn’t a few months later that Agatha had suddenly left him. Smith was alone and worried about her. He didn’t even know where she was. He wrote this letter in hopes that one day it will make it back to her or someone related to her.

I frowned after reading the letter. It wasn’t that I was upset at him, I was upset at myself. I read a letter meant for someone else. And not just anybody’s letter, it was a letter meant for my mother.