Chapter 212: Letters Of Gratitude

Luca didn’t know why, but he suddenly felt threatened by Leona’s gaze.

There was something in her eyes, a hunger, a possessiveness that made him want to take a step back. His body tensed, his instincts screaming at him that he was being sized up as prey.

But before he could move, a thought struck him and the wariness melted into excitement.

“Leona.” He said, his voice bright. “I totally forgot. I have another gift for you.”

Leona snapped out of her daze, her eyes going wide. “Another gift?!”

She looked like a child on a holiday morning, receiving present after present. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled, and she was practically bouncing on her heels.

Luca smiled and opened a portal. He reached inside, and when his hand emerged, he was holding a basket.

A basket full of letters.

Leona’s excitement faltered, replaced by confusion. She stared at the basket, then at him, then back at the basket.

“Why did you steal all the earmuffs back?” She asked, her brow furrowing. “How did you even take them from the villagers without anyone noticing?”

Luca shook his head. “These aren’t the earmuffs. These are letters. From everyone in the village.”

Leona’s eyes widened in surprise. She stared at the basket as if it had suddenly turned into something sacred.

Luca’s expression grew tender as he explained, his voice soft and full of warmth.

“After seeing everything you’ve done for the village—not just today, but for so many years—I wanted to do something back for you. I wanted the village to finally appreciate you for all the quiet, endless work you’ve carried on your shoulders.”

“But at the same time, I knew I couldn’t just go ahead and tell everyone that you’re the ’Spirit of the Forest’ who’s been helping them all this time. So I decided to use an indirect method.”

Leona’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, though her curiosity was clearly winning.

“What method is that?” She asked, leaning in closer.

Luca gestured to the overflowing basket with a proud smile.

“I simply went around to everyone and asked them to write a letter to the spirit of the forest.” He said. “I told them they could treat it as an offering—whatever feelings they had, whatever gratitude they wanted to express, they could write it down.”

“Hearing that, everyone got so excited. They wrote letters right away and gave them to me. This basket right here is exactly that. I got a letter from every single member of the village.”

Leona was absolutely shocked.

She had no clue this had been happening behind the scenes. More than that, she was in utter awe as she looked at the basket now.

She reached out and grabbed it gently with both hands, almost afraid it might vanish.

“Everyone wrote a letter.” She repeated slowly. “To me…They wrote letters to me.”

“Forty years of appreciation.” Luca said softly. “Forty years of gratitude for everything you’ve done. It’s all in there. Written down for you.”

Leona couldn’t speak.

She had thought the scarf was the best gift she had ever received. Then came the earmuffs, the ones he had made just for her, with the fruits of her forest stitched into the fabric.

She had thought nothing could top that.

But this.

This was her life’s work. Forty years of secret kindness, of hidden love, of watching from the shadows while everyone thanked a spirit that didn’t exist.

And now, in her hands, she held the proof that it had mattered. That she had mattered.

Her eyes welled up.

“Don’t get emotional already.” Luca said, waving his hand. “You haven’t even read them yet.”

Leona sniffed, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

“W-Who’s crying? I’m not crying!”

But she was smiling. A beautiful, watery, overwhelmed smile.

She looked at the basket, then at him, and her eyes sparkled with determination.

“Luca. Sit.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I said sit. Right there. On the ground. Cross-legged.”

“Why do I need to—”

“Just sit, Luca. Stop arguing with me.”

He sighed, but he sat. He folded his legs, settled into the grass, and barely had time to get comfortable before Leona dropped into his lap.

She curled against him, her back pressed to his chest, her body fitting against his like she had been designed to sit there.

Luca looked down at her, amused. It seemed that, in Leona’s mind, he had been designated as her personal seating arrangement.

He didn’t mind. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer, and she made a small, satisfied sound.

She opened the first letter.

The handwriting was elegant, flowing—the script of someone who had spent a lifetime practicing.

Leona recognized it immediately. One of the elders with silver hair and kind eyes.

To the Spirit of the Forest,

I have lived a long life. I have seen many things—good and bad, joy and sorrow. But I have never seen a guardian as devoted as you.

You have watched over us for longer than I have been alive. You have kept us safe when we did not know we were in danger. You have given us gifts we did not know we needed.

Thank you. For everything. For every day you have spent in the shadows, watching over us. I hope, one day, we can thank you properly.

With deepest gratitude,

Maren

Leona pressed her hand to her mouth. Her eyes were bright.

“She’s the one who taught me how to bake.” She whispered. “When I was young. She would let me sit in her kitchen and watch her work. I haven’t spoken to her properly in years.”

Luca squeezed her gently. “Keep reading.”

She opened another letter. This handwriting was looser, more familiar—someone her own age. A friend from childhood, before everything changed.

Dear forest spirit,

I don’t know if you’re real. I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. But the Hero said to write, so I’m writing.

I have a daughter. You’ve helped her. More times than I can count.

When she was little, she fell from a tree and broke her arm. Someone had already splinted it by the time I found her.

When she was sick with fever, medicine appeared on our doorstep.

When she lost her favorite doll, it was returned to her the next day, cleaned and mended.

I don’t know who you are. I don’t know if you’re one person or many, or if you’re truly a spirit of this forest. But I want you to know that I see you. I see the work you do. And I am grateful.

Thank you. For being there when no one else was.

Tiava

Leona’s breath hitched. Her fingers trembled as she set the letter aside.

“She was one of my closest friends.” She said quietly. “We used to do everything together. But then…everything changed. And we drifted apart.”

She looked down at the letter.

“This is the first she’s spoken so fondly in so many years.”

Luca didn’t say anything. He just held her tighter.

She opened the next letter.

The handwriting was clumsy, uneven—clearly a child’s. The letters were oversized, some of them backwards, and there were small drawings in the margins. A tree. A flower. A lopsided heart.

Dear forest spirit,

My mom says you’re the one who leaves presents for people. Is that true?

I wanted to say thank you for the fruit you left on our doorstep last week. It was the best fruit I ever ate. My little sister liked it too. She got juice all over his face and Mom laughed so hard she snorted.

I drew you a picture of a tree. It’s not very good because I’m not good at drawing yet. But I tried my best.

I hope you like it.

Thank you for being nice to my family.

P.S. Do you have wings like an angel? I think you would look pretty with wings.

Leona laughed—a wet, tearful laugh—and held up the letter to show Luca the drawing.

A brown trunk, green blobs for leaves, and a tiny figure standing beside it with stick arms raised in what might have been a wave.

“She thinks I have wings.” Leona said, her voice cracking.

“Well, you look like you do whenever your ears flutter around.”

Leona shook her head, smiling, and set the letter aside with great care, as if it were made of glass.

The next letter was from Selma. It was short, direct, and utterly in character.

To the forest spirit,

I don’t know if you’re real. I don’t know if you can hear me. But if you can, thanks for everything you’ve done. Also, you should give Luna less stuff. She’s already too smug about being your favorite.

Respectfully,

Selma

Leona snorted. “That girl.”

The one after that was from Ivy, who had apparently used the opportunity to ask the forest spirit for advice on someone, she was interested in.

The letter was long, rambling, and filled with crossed-out words and added paragraphs. Leona read it with growing amusement realising that it was about Luca.

She opened another letter.

This one was from Alia—thoughtful, detailed, and surprisingly heartfelt. Alia had listed every single favor she could remember the forest spirit doing for her family, from the time her grandmother was sick to the time their house needed repairs.

She had ended the letter with a simple statement:

You have helped us so many times. I wish I could help you in return. If there is ever anything you need, please know that I would do anything to repay your kindness.

Leona stared at the letter for a long moment.

“She’s a good girl.” She said finally. “She always was.”

She then read letters from the elders, formal and respectful, treating her like a deity to be honored.

She read letters from the mothers, grateful for the help they had received when their children were sick

She read letters from the children, filled with drawings and stickers and earnest questions about what the forest spirit looked like and whether she had pets and if she liked cookies.

She read a letter from the clay artisan, thanking the spirit for fixing her oven when it broke.

From the weaver, grateful for the delivery of rare dyes that had appeared on her doorstep.

Letter after letter, envelope after envelope.

Each one a small piece of the village’s heart, written out and offered to a spirit that didn’t exist—to her, the woman who had been doing this work alone for so many years.

Leona’s face cycled through emotions.

Joy. Surprise. Nostalgia. Laughter. Sometimes tears, quickly blinked away.

Her fingers trembled as she opened each new envelope, as she read each new message, as she added each new piece of paper to the growing pile beside her.

Luca watched from behind her, his arms around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder.

He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t comment.

He just held her, letting her experience this moment, letting her feel the weight of years of gratitude pressing against her heart.

She read so many letters. The basket seemed bottomless, each new envelope bringing another voice, another memory, another thank you.

And then she reached one particular one.

The last envelope was different.

The handwriting was messy, but not childishly so—more like someone who had written in a hurry, who had been too excited to slow down.

The paper was slightly crumpled, as if it had been clutched tightly and smoothed out multiple times.

Leona recognized the handwriting immediately.

Her hand shook as she opened it.

Dear Forest Spirit,

I don’t know if you’re real or not but Luca said to write a letter so I’m writing a letter.

I wanted to say thank you for all the nice things you’ve done. Like when you fixed our fence that one time and when you left those flowers on the windowsill and when you made the chicken coop warmer in the winter.

Clucky really appreciated that even though she can’t write letters because she’s a chicken.

I hope you’re real because I want to meet you someday. I would give you a hug and show you my chickens. I have a lot of chickens. You can have one if you want. Not Clucky because she’s my favorite but maybe one of the others.

Thank you for taking care of our village. Thank you for taking care of my mother even when she’s sad and won’t tell anyone why.

You’re the best.

Love,

Lulu

P.S: If it’s possible can give me chicken wings or make one of my chicken super big so that I can ride him. That would be awesome!

Leona stared at the letter.

Her daughter. Her wild, chaotic, impossible daughter had written this.

Lulu, who never seemed to take anything seriously, who bounced through life with a smile on her face and mischief in her heart—had written a letter full of quiet gratitude.

Leona pressed the letter to her chest, closed her eyes, and let the tears fall.

Luca held her tighter, his cheek pressed to her hair, and said nothing.

There was nothing to say.

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