It was a Tuesday afternoon when Mrs. Chen handed me the envelope. The paper was cream-coloured and slightly crinkled, as if it had been folded and unfolded many times. My name was written on the front in careful cursive. I turned it over, curious. There was no stamp, no address — just my name. Mrs. Chen smiled and said, "It's from someone who wanted you to have it." I slipped it into my pocket without opening it, feeling the weight of the paper against my leg all through maths.

At lunch, I sat on the bench near the oval and finally pulled out the letter. The first thing I noticed was the handwriting — neat but shaky, like the writer had taken great care. It began: "Dear Year 6 student, I used to sit where you sit now." I read that line twice. The letter was from a former student, now in high school, who had written to someone in my class as part of a school project. She described her favourite memory: the day she won the spelling bee in the hall. I could picture it clearly.

I read the letter a second time, more slowly. She wrote about feeling nervous before the spelling bee, about the way her hands trembled as she stood at the microphone. But she also wrote about the rush of relief when she spelled "rhythm" correctly and heard the applause. I had never won a spelling bee, but I knew that feeling of being scared and proud at the same time. Her words made me think about my own moments of bravery — like when I spoke up in assembly last term.

The letter was from a former student, now in high school, who had written to someone in my class as part of a school project.

After school, I showed the letter to my mum. She read it over my shoulder and said, "That's lovely. What will you write back?" I hadn't thought about replying, but suddenly I wanted to. I wanted to tell the older student about my own favourite memory: the time our class planted a garden near the library. I wanted to describe the smell of the soil and the way the first green shoots appeared after weeks of watering. I realised that letters could connect people across time.

That night, I tucked the letter into my diary. I knew I would read it again someday, maybe when I was in high school myself. The letter had arrived on an ordinary Tuesday, but it had given me something extraordinary: a glimpse of someone else's story and a reminder that my own story was worth telling. I decided to write back the next day. I wanted to pass on that same feeling — the one you get when you read something twice and discover something new each time.