The town was almost silent under the heavy gray sky.
A drizzle hung in the air — not quite rain, but enough to dampen the streets and soak the wild grass growing between the cracks in the pavement.
Calen walked slowly, the lantern swaying at his side.
Its flame was little more than a flicker against the soft gloom, but he kept it lit anyway.
At the end of the empty street stood a small, faded building —
a post office, its sign swinging in the wet wind.
Calen pushed the door open.
The bell overhead gave a tired clang.
Inside, the place smelled of dust and paper and something faintly floral, like pressed flowers left too long in a closed book.
Rows of empty mail slots lined the walls.
A battered counter divided the room.
Behind it sat a young woman, hunched over a stack of envelopes.
She looked up as he entered.
Wide brown eyes met his —
sharp, guarded, and unbearably sad.
Her hair was pulled into a loose braid, a few strands sticking to her cheeks from the damp air.
She wore a faded sweater and jeans, both a little too large on her thin frame.
Woman:
(quietly)
"We're closed."
Calen hesitated.
Calen:
(soft)
"Not here for mail."
She studied him for a moment — the lantern, the soaked boots, the quiet in his posture — then set down her pen.
Woman:
"Nobody's here for mail anymore."
She leaned back, crossing her arms loosely.
Woman:
"What are you here for?"
Calen:
"Just passing through."
Her gaze dropped to the lantern again, then back to him.
Woman:
(soft chuckle)
"You're not from around here, that's for sure."
She gestured vaguely at the empty room.
Woman:
"I'm Amara.
Keeper of dust and broken promises."
Calen:
(smiling faintly)
"Calen.
Carrier of… stubborn lights, I guess."
Amara laughed — a short, brittle sound — but it cracked a little warmth into the cold room.
She motioned toward the battered bench along the wall.
Amara:
"Sit, if you want.
Company's rare enough around here."
Calen sat, setting the lantern beside him.
Its glow pooled weakly across the worn floorboards.
For a while, Amara busied herself behind the counter, pretending to straighten papers that didn't need straightening.
Calen said nothing.
Sometimes silence made it easier for people to speak.
Finally, Amara leaned on the counter with a sigh, her fingers drumming against the dusty surface.
Amara:
(softly)
"It's funny, you know.
This place used to be alive."
She smiled faintly, eyes distant.
Amara:
"Kids would run in after school, waiting for birthday packages.
Old folks mailing letters to grandkids too far away to visit.
Everyone coming and going… like the whole world fit into this little room."
Her voice trailed off, swallowed by the hollow quiet.
Calen:
(gently)
"What happened?"
Amara shrugged, the motion loose and tired.
Amara:
"The factories closed.
Families moved out.
The ones who stayed got older.
Now it's just me… and memories."
She turned away, rummaging behind the counter.
When she spoke again, her voice was lower, heavier.
Amara:
"And him."
Calen leaned forward slightly.
Calen:
(soft)
"Him?"
Amara didn't look at him.
She pulled out a shoebox from under the counter and set it down carefully.
It was battered and stained, the lid barely holding together.
She opened it with slow hands.
Inside were letters — dozens of them, some yellowed with age, others newer, crisp, sealed in different shades of ink.
She traced one envelope with her fingertip.
Amara:
(whispering)
"My husband.
Aaron."
Her throat tightened around the name.
Amara:
"He died three years ago."
Calen said nothing.
Just listened.
Amara:
"Accident on the highway.
Wrong place, wrong time."
She smiled bitterly.
Amara:
"Isn't that always the way?"
She picked up a letter, holding it delicately.
Amara:
"After he died…
I started writing to him."
She gave a small, broken laugh.
Amara:
"Stupid, right?
Like he was just… somewhere else.
Waiting for the mail."
Calen's voice was low.
Calen:
"Not stupid."
Amara hugged the letter to her chest.
Amara:
(quietly)
"I write when I'm scared.
When I miss him so bad I can't breathe.
When something small happens —
a bird outside the window, a bad cup of coffee —
and I think, 'Aaron would've laughed at that.'"
She smiled through tears she didn't bother wiping away.
Amara:
"I never mail them, obviously.
Just…
pile them up.
Like if I have enough, maybe it'll fill the hole he left."
The rain outside grew heavier, a soft, steady drumming against the windows.
Calen reached for the lantern, setting it gently on the counter between them.
Its light flickered against the old wood, making the letters glow softly.
Calen:
(gently)
"Maybe it's not about filling the hole."
Amara frowned slightly.
Amara:
"Then what?"
Calen:
(softly)
"Maybe it's about carrying the love.
Not the absence."
She looked at him, raw and broken and open all at once.
Amara:
(whispering)
"I'm scared to stop writing."
Calen:
"Because it feels like losing him again."
She nodded fiercely, clutching the letter tighter.
Amara:
(hoarse)
"If I stop…
what if he fades?"
Calen shook his head slowly.
Calen:
"He won't."
He tapped the lantern lightly.
Calen:
"Memory burns stubborn, even when you think it's gone out."