The Postcard That Was Never Sent

《The Postcard That Was Never Sent》 After retiring, Dad developed a habit of sending postcards to his daughter every month. The postcards didn't contain anything special. Sometimes it was about a new noodle shop that opened near their home, other times about the potted plant on the balcony that had finally bloomed. They always ended with: "It's getting cold, remember to wear an extra layer." His daughter worked in another city and always said she'd come home once things got less busy, but she kept missing the scheduled dates. Then one winter, she received a call from the hospital. Dad had passed away suddenly. A half-written postcard lay on his bedside table. When she returned home to sort through his belongings, she found dozens of postcards neatly arranged in a drawer, all addressed, but never mailed. The date on the last one was the day before Dad was admitted to the hospital. It read: "I bought your favorite oranges today and put them in the fridge. You said you'd be back this week, so I didn't eat them, saving them for you." His daughter opened the refrigerator. Only a few shriveled oranges remained. She sat on the floor and cried for a long time. Later, she began sending a postcard every month to her old home address, writing about her recent life, work troubles, and what she ate that day. She knew no one would reply. Yet, after writing each one, she would always add a final sentence: "It's getting cold, Dad. You remember to wear an extra layer too." <Some words left unsaid aren't forgotten, they're just lost because there's no one left to hear them.>