In the high coves where the mountain laurel grows thick as a secret, folks still talk about the letters that traveled farther than the people who wrote them.
It started with a girl named Willa Mae, who lived so far up the ridge that even the mail mule only made the trip twice a month. She'd leave her letters tucked into the crook of an old laurel trunk, wrapped in oilcloth and tied with twine.
One day she found a reply — neat handwriting, careful words, signed only "A Neighbor Down the Way." Whoever they were, they wrote about the weather, the creek thawing, the way the fog moved like a living thing. Willa Mae wrote back. And so it went, letter after letter, season after season, two people learning each other's hearts without ever seeing a face.
When the great storm of '42 washed out the footbridge, Willa Mae hiked down to check on the laurel tree. There, waiting in the hollow, was the final note: "If you're reading this, I reckon it's time we meet. I'll be at the bend in the road at first light."
She went. And standing there was a young man with a shy smile and a sprig of mountain laurel tucked behind his ear. He held out his hand like he'd been holding it out his whole life.
Some folks say the laurel still blooms brighter on that ridge, fed by all the words they once carried. Others say love that grows slow and steady, letter by letter, is the kind that lasts the longest.
