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The morning settles gently over the town. The light is pale, almost shy, as if hesitating to wake the world. I push open the door of the post office, a little earlier than usual, and the cold air bites at my face. The wind plays with the fallen plane tree leaves, and I cling to my wool scarf like a fragment of safety in the damp chill. My footsteps echo on the tiles—my only companion in this quiet.
The customers will arrive soon, but for now, there's only silence and the lingering smell of coffee from the automatic machine. I sit behind the counter, my hands touching the cold wood, and watch the rows of letters and parcels. Everything is in its place, perfect and still, as if the whole world were just holding its breath, waiting for the rest of the day to arrive.
I look at the envelopes and sometimes find myself imagining the stories inside. The words that no one has read yet. The secrets entrusted to paper, sent alone to a recipient we hope is kind. I love this suspended moment, where each letter is a promise, an echo of life that reminds me I am part of something bigger than myself.
Since my mother passed away, I've learned to cherish these quiet moments. Solitude has become my refuge, yet it never feels entirely gentle. It carries a bitter taste of absence, of life continuing despite everything. I spend my days delivering the words of others, rarely receiving any of my own. And sometimes, that absence weighs more than anything.
The ticking of the clock blends with the sounds from the street: a car passes, a pedestrian's steps echo on the sidewalk, a plastic bag rustles in the wind. I jot down in my notebook the hours when the calm is most complete, when the world seems to forget me. These are the moments when I truly breathe.
Gradually, the day brightens, and the smell of fresh bread drifts up from nearby bakeries. The post office windows are fogged, and I trace patterns with my finger, leaving invisible marks of my presence. I know no one will see them, but the gesture reassures me. A silent way of saying: *I am here.*
I lose myself in thought, and that's when I notice something unusual. An envelope, resting on one of the shelves, one I've never seen before. It's addressed to *Claire Dubois*, and the stamp is perfect, almost ceremonial. I don't know anyone by that name in this town. But what catches my attention is its unusual regularity: it comes every week, delivered at the same time by the same quiet man, a customer who has never spoken to anyone.
Curious, I pick it up. The paper is soft, slightly creased at the edges, as if the journey had been long before reaching me. I feel the emotion behind the handwriting, something alive and fragile. I put the envelope back on the counter, but my eyes don't leave it. Who is Claire Dubois? And why do these letters seem so important to the person sending them?
The minutes pass, and I find myself waiting for the postman to arrive with more letters. My routine is broken, and a strange thrill of curiosity runs through me. I always thought my life was too quiet, too empty, but perhaps this little mystery is exactly what I need to break the silence of gray mornings.
I continue my work, sorting and delivering mail with care, watching familiar faces pass by. Residents come to pick up their letters, exchange a few words, but no one seems to notice the mystery stirring inside me. I smile politely, exchange small talk, but my mind is elsewhere, hanging on this name I don't know: *Claire Dubois.*
During my morning break, I sit by the window with a steaming cup of coffee and watch the town wake up. People rushing, children running to school, shutters opening hesitantly… Everything seems normal, yet I feel that something is about to change. There's that envelope, sitting on the shelf. It almost seems to be watching me, as if it knows I noticed it.
I think of my mother, her words, the way she loved writing letters to faraway friends. Maybe that's why this simple piece of paper touches me so deeply. Because it carries raw, sincere feelings untouched by the world. Because it reminds me that behind every letter, there is a soul trying to be heard.
And I, for too long, have let mine go silent.
I decide to place my hand on the envelope. Not to open it—not yet. Just to feel the texture of the writing, to soak in this moment. There is energy in the gesture, an invisible promise. I don't know why I feel this, nor where it will lead, but for the first time in a long while, I feel alive.
The rest of the morning unfolds in a pleasant blur. I deliver the mail, greet customers, smile, converse, yet my eyes keep drifting back to the envelope. It sits there, silent and imposing in its simplicity. And I know that one day, I will open it. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps next week. But I will. Because I sense something waiting inside.
Meanwhile, I savor the calm, the silence, and this strange anticipation. The world keeps turning, but for me, time has paused for a moment, suspended between the paper and my fingers. And in this pause, I find myself smiling softly, realizing that sometimes, fate hides in the simplest things.
The phone rings, snapping me back to reality. I pick up, answer a customer's questions, exchange a few words with colleagues. Everything seems normal, yet my mind is elsewhere, fixed on this envelope, on the mystery that has crept into my routine and has already begun to change something inside me.
For the first time in a long while, I realize I don't want to escape the world. I want to touch it, feel it, even through paper and ink. Perhaps this letter, without me knowing yet, is the beginning of something unexpected. Something that could transform my life, or at least color it a little, like the sun finally breaking through the clouds of a gray morning.
And as the day moves on, I keep my hand on the envelope, feeling the raised writing under my fingers, like a secret shared between fate and me. I don't yet know what's inside. But I know that soon, I will find out. And just the thought of that is enough to make this morning—and all the mornings to come—a little brighter.
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