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I was delivering mail to a city made of old letters
I walked down streets where the buildings were stacked envelopes, and every door had a name written in faded ink. The dog at 311 was there tooâsame one, same grumpy lookâbut he didnât bark. Just sat on a porch made of torn pages, watching me like he knew Iâd never finish the route. When I reached the last house, it wasnât a house at all. It was a single envelope with my name on it, sealed shut. I didnât open it. I just stood there, feeling how quiet it gets when the post stops.
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