In a village, surrounded by tall mango and tamarind trees, stood an old treehouse. It wasn’t fancy. A few wooden planks, a small ladder, and a little window were all it had. But to 12-year-old Kunal and his cousin Tara, it was their special place.

Every summer, Tara would visit her grandparents, who lived next door to Kunal. They’d rush to the treehouse right after breakfast and spend hours there, making up stories, drawing silly cartoons, and watching squirrels jump from branch to branch.

One afternoon, after a brief rain, Kunal found something strange under a loose floorboard. It was a small tin box, rusted around the edges. Inside were old photographs, a dried rose, and a folded letter. He showed it to Tara, and her eyes widened.

The letter was handwritten and dated July 1982. It spoke of two childhood friends, Meena and Arun, who had once used the same treehouse. They shared dreams in that space. The letter hinted at a big argument that ended their friendship. The last line said, “If you find this, please tell Arun I’m sorry. I still miss our stories.”

Kunal and Tara sat quietly for a while. Then Kunal said, “Should we find them?” Tara nodded. “We have to.”

The next day, they showed the letter to their grandfather. He read it slowly and smiled. “Arun still lives on the other side of the village,” he said. “Meena moved to the city years ago, but I think I could get her address.”

That week, Kunal and Tara visited Arun, now an old man with a soft voice and thoughtful eyes. When he read the letter, his hands trembled. He looked out the window for a long time before speaking.

“I thought Meena forgot me,” he said quietly.

With help from their grandfather, they wrote a letter to Meena, along with a photo of the treehouse and a copy of the message. A month later, a reply came. Meena wrote about how much she had missed Arun and how life had moved too fast. She ended her letter with, “Tell him I’m sorry too.”

Later that year, Meena visited the village. With Kunal and Tara watching from the treehouse window, she and Arun sat under the same tree where the house still stood. They didn’t speak much, but they smiled a lot.

After that, the treehouse felt warmer. As if it had healed. Kunal and Tara started keeping a notebook there, asking future visitors to share memories or thoughts, so no one’s story would be forgotten again.

Years passed, and though Kunal and Tara grew up and moved to different cities, the treehouse remained. Sometimes, other children from the village found it and added their own pages to the notebook.

The tree stood tall, holding a thousand stories in its arms.

Moral: Small actions, like a letter or a visit, can heal wounds time alone cannot. Never let misunderstandings last longer than they need to. Some friendships are worth mending—before it’s too late.