Subject: Leave from Office

To whom it may concern,

During the vacations, I went trekking. While packing my bags, I accidentally took my office ID with me.

I was exploring there when I dropped my ID somewhere along the way. A man found it and handed it back to me. He seemed like a local.

“Hey, you dropped this,” he said. I thanked him and took my ID.

He was a painter. He painted for the tourists. He asked if I would like one. I sat on a chair; behind me stretched a magnificent view, vast mountains capped with snow, brushed with a faint tint of green. A very vivid, colourful view. Though his paintings followed a particular scheme of mostly three colours: Green, yellow and red.

While he painted, we discussed the scenery, the tourists, and how much he loves painting tourists. At some point, I asked how much he earned doing what he does.

“Bare minimum to feed myself,” he replied. “But I’m happy, though. It gives me thrills,” he added with a smile.

“Do you love what you do?” he asked.

After a pause, I said, “Not quite,” with a smile, a forced one, perhaps.

“Then why do it?”

“To feed myself, I guess.”

“You can feed yourself doing what you love as well,” he said. “Like me.”

I was submerged in deep thinking after hearing those words.

“What do you love, by the way?” he interrupted my thoughts.

“Writing,” I said.

I don’t know what happened in that moment. It was… a life-changing moment. Sometimes, such moments seem ordinary to one person but completely transform another. For me, it did. I decided I would follow my passion.

“It’s done,” he declared. He had finished the painting. It was beautiful.

“It’s beautiful. I’ll keep this in my office when I become an established writer.”

“Thinking about following your passion, huh? Not bad.” He remarked with a smile.

“Thinking.”

“My friend there sells notebooks and pens, maybe you’ll need one,” he said.

I left my ID there and went with him to buy a notebook and a pen.

Maybe I will see my office and colleagues again after a long time, if I can.

I am writing this in the notebook I bought, with the painting beside me. It’s dark here; I can barely write. I think it’s a basement. I don’t know where I am. My head hurts. There’s a little blood on my hand and shirt. I guess it was not painting that he loved. I don’t think this letter will ever find you.

I miss my office.

Thanking you,

Yours faithfully,

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