The postmaster in our village possessed an unusual gift—he could read the emotional temperature of any letter simply by holding it. Love burned crimson through the envelope, grief pooled blue-black at the corners, and lies left a bitter metallic taste on his fingertips.
When I arrived at his office that Tuesday morning with my carefully sealed confession to Thomas Whitmore, I had no idea about his abilities. I only knew that I was moving to London at week’s end and could no longer bear the weight of my unspoken feelings.
“Quite passionate, this one,” the postmaster murmured, weighing my letter with his weathered hands. His eyes twinkled with mischief. “Are you certain about sending it?”
My cheeks flushed. “Please, just post it.”
But as I walked home through the lavender fields, doubt crept in like morning fog. By evening, I was frantic. I burst into the post office just as he was locking up.
“My letter to Thomas—I need it back.”
He studied me with those knowing eyes. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, miss. But perhaps we could arrange an alternative.”
The next morning, he presented me with my own letter, apparently undelivered. Relief flooded through me until I noticed the envelope felt different—lighter somehow, as though the words inside had evaporated.
“What did you do?”
“I transferred the sentiment to something that needed it more,” he said simply.
That afternoon, I encountered Thomas by the old stone bridge. His face was luminous with joy.
“The most extraordinary thing happened,” he said breathlessly. “Mrs. Henderson’s roses—the ones that haven’t bloomed for three years since her husband died—they burst into flower overnight. Magnificent red blooms everywhere. She says it’s like receiving a love letter from beyond.”
I stared at him, then back toward the post office. Through the window, I could see the postmaster sorting mail, his fingers dancing over each envelope like a pianist reading music.
“And I realized,” Thomas continued, “life is too short for unspoken words.” He took my hands. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something important myself.”
The postmaster’s laughter drifted on the wind as Thomas spoke the very words I’d written in my letter—words that had somehow found their way to exactly where they belonged.
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