Here’s a poetic version of the story The Unfinished Letter in free verse form, long enough to capture the depth and emotions. ✍️ Vijay Sharma Erry --- I found it in a wooden box, hidden beneath faded clothes, a letter yellowed with years, its words trembling across fragile paper: “My dear child, I know you had your doubts about your birth. I couldn’t tell you while I was alive, so I left you this letter. Your real parents live in…” And then— silence. A torn edge. A life broken in half. --- That night, the rain tapped on my window like a thousand questions. Was I a son, or a stranger in my own home? Sleep abandoned me, while photographs stared back— so few from my childhood, so many from later years, as if someone had erased the beginning of my story. --- I called my aunt. Her silence screamed louder than words. “Yes,” she whispered finally, “You were adopted.” The floor beneath me vanished. The air around me thickened. Yet in her voice there was love, as if reminding me that truth does not erase affection. --- A small envelope, faded ink— Nakodar, Punjab. Two words, my compass. On a train I traveled, fields rushing past the window, my heart a storm, my hands clutching a fragment of a letter and the weight of all my questions. --- The village met me with curious eyes, with whispers, with silence. An old man offered me tea and a thread of hope: “Gurnam Singh, Harpreet Kaur… they once lost a child.” I walked to their home, feet heavy, soul trembling. At the doorway stood a woman whose eyes carried both sorrow and endless waiting. “Are you Harpreet Kaur?” “Yes… who are you?” “Perhaps… your son.” --- Tears broke before words could. Hands cupped my face, lips murmured prayers,