Post Office Romane & Geschichten

She drove into town, wanting to keep the trip quick. The Post Office was an old building, built in Victorian Italian Renaissance Style out of sandstone, and it smelled old, she thought as she stepped into the entrance hall, with its glossy tiled floor in contrasting colored patterns. The mailboxes on the wall were original to the building, the little metal doors with their dark patina and ornate little numbers set into the stone. Aislen found the door she was after and used to key to open it. As suspected, the mailbox was full. She removed the pile of envelopes, and locked the little door behind her, flicking through the pile as she returned to the car.

The deal with the Komatsu took quite their time without them noticing, and when they arrived at the post office, it was almost lunch time. The windlets did not stop dashing in and out of the Southeast Branch Post Office since morning. Once a delivery is done, they return to the office to take another cargo and leave immediately to deliver them. It was almost as if they didn’t stop to rest. They come and go like bees in a hive.

It looked like someone had cleared most of the ice from the walkway earlier in the day, and while there was snow everywhere, at least it wasn’t frozen. With Ben’s hand in mine, we headed to the post office, which would be closing soon since it was a Saturday, and they were only open until noon on Saturdays. There was a short line of people with packages waiting to be mailed, but at least we all fit inside of the little waiting area inside of the small building. Behind the counter, a little old man was taking packages and printing postage as quickly as he possibly could. Another younger man was taking the packages and moving them into the back, sorting them, an

The Other Letter The writing on the front of the envelope was barely legible, and Baden presumed that it can have only arrived at his home because the staff at the post office in Big Cidering knew his name and could make out some of the postcode. Baden opened it impatiently. der Jermy

We all nodded in unison. "I am really sorry to appear without notice, Miss. We just received a letter from Wales in England. So here I am, bringing it to your attention." From wales? Could it be? "But aren't the postal services supposed to be closed at this time of the day?" I asked. The postman explained while giving a sheepish smile, Usually yes. But this letter delivered to you has been classified as an important one from the client, so we had to abide by his request."

He was waiting—Nugen realized as he closed the distance—not because he was slow, but because he was obedient. The postman stood with his satchel held just so, posture straight, chin lowered, red eyes respectfully downcast as though the very act of looking up would be a breach. He hadn’t even begun to present the bag. Not yet. Not without the proper hands arriving to receive it, that is. Because in Nochten, even the mail wasn’t merely delivered. It was processed—fed through a chain of authority the way blood-wine was poured: measured, witnessed, sanctioned.

A long shot, maybe, but I was desperate for any kind of lead. I pushed open the heavy metal and glass doors, entering the buff colored building and glancing around. The ‘lovely’ impersonal atmosphere of all government offices greeted me, with scuffed terrazzo flooring, a bedraggled fig tree, and bland paint decorating the cavernous space. Post office boxes lined two walls and several kiosks stood in the middle of the room, displaying posters and various government brochures. People stood in a trance-like state waiting for their turn while others huddled around a nearby table, writing addresses on packages or affixing stamps.

PRESENT DAY - THE VILLAGE POST OFFICE The bell above the door chimed as Alessia Russo stepped into the cramped post office, her three children trailing behind her like ducklings. Dante held Marco's hand, while Lucia clutched the hem of her mother's worn dress. "Mrs. Russo!" The postmaster, Signor Benedetti, looked up with surprise. "I wasn't expecting to see you here. I usually send post up to the house." "I know." Alessia forced a smile. "I thought I'd save you the trip. The children wanted to see the market."

On the same day, I returned to my hometown and stayed with my parents. I locked myself in the room and never ate anything, simply checking my phone from time to time. Knowing Ramona, she would not give up yet. As expected, my boss called me the next morning, his voice dead serious. "Explain this, Bianca. We received an anonymous email with photos attached, claiming you're a homewrecker." I sneered. 'It's always the same old trick from Ramona.'

He was obviously shocked by her reaction, he cleared his throat and looked away, fixing his too tight uniform. A few minutes after they’d passed the estate gates, they reached the post office. Its quaint exterior and the familiar scent of paper and ink welcomed her as she entered. The bell above the door jingled softly, signaling her arrival. A friendly postal worker looked up from behind the counter, offering a warm smile. "Good morning," the postal worker greeted. He was a middle aged man that seemed to be approaching his sixties, he had a head full of grey hair and the kindest green eyes when he smiled.