In a sleepy village by the sea, there lived a boy named Ben. He was 13, thin as a stick, with brown hair that fell into his eyes. Ben didn’t speak much, but he loved the sound of the waves and the feel of the wind on his face.
Ben’s house was small, just two rooms made of wood. He lived with his mother, Anna, who worked at the fish market. His father had been a sailor. One day, many years ago, his boat left in a storm and never came back.
But Ben believed something else. He believed his father would return.
Every evening, after school, Ben went to the same spot—a large rock by the beach. He sat there with a little red notebook and looked at the sea. He wrote letters to his father in it.
“Dear Dad, today I fed a dog with my sandwich.”
“I helped Mum carry water from the well.”
“I miss you.”
He never posted them. Just wrote them, closed the notebook, and waited.
One day, an old man saw Ben sitting alone. His name was Mr. Howard. He was once a teacher but had now grown slow and forgetful. He walked with a stick and a warm smile.
“You write a lot, boy,” he said.
Ben nodded. “I write letters.”
“To whom?”
“My dad. He’s at sea.”
The old man looked at the horizon. “It’s a big sea. Full of mystery.”
“I know,” Ben said. “But I believe he’ll come back. Maybe not today. But someday.”
Mr. Howard said nothing. He sat beside Ben, and the two listened to the waves.
Weeks passed. Summer came. Then the rains. Mr. Howard came often now. He brought Ben tea in a flask, or sometimes a biscuit.
“Why do you wait every day?” he asked one rainy afternoon.
Ben looked at the sea. “Because if I stop waiting, it means I don’t believe anymore.”
The old man smiled. “That’s strong faith, boy. Not many have it.”
One evening, Mr. Howard brought a surprise. A typewriter—old, rusty, but still working.
“You have stories, Ben,” he said. “They don’t need to stay in a notebook. Write them. Let others read.”
Ben touched the machine. “I don’t know how to write real stories.”
“Start with your letters,” said the old man.
So Ben did.
Years Passed.
Ben grew taller. His mother smiled more. The house now had better walls, and a little garden. Mr. Howard grew older, his hands shaky, but his heart full.
And Ben?
He became a writer.
His first book was called “Letters to the Sea.” It was about a boy waiting for his father. It was about hope, love, and the sound of waves at sunset.
People cried when they read it.
One Morning, Ben stood by the sea, now a young man. Mr. Howard sat behind him, older than ever.
Ben said, “He may never come back.”
The old man nodded. “Yes.”
Ben smiled softly. “But that’s okay. Because waiting taught me to write. And writing gave me life.”
He opened his red notebook, now worn out, and placed it on the rock.
“Thank you, Dad. For the silence. It helped me find my voice.”
Moral of the Story:
The people we wait for may not always return, but the hope we carry shapes who we become. In the quiet moments of longing, we find strength, creativity, and purpose. Sometimes, the journey we take while waiting becomes the true gift.
