short fiction · 2026-10-19

Undelivered

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

In the quiet hour before dawn, I sit with a stack of envelopes, each sealed with wax the color of forgotten sunsets. I address them to versions of myself that left at crossroads, to friends who moved without leaving a forwarding address, to lovers who whispered promises into the wind and never looked back. I stamp them with hope, drop them into the mailbox of silence, and watch the postman of time pass by without a glance. Somewhere, a letter arrives with a return address I no longer recognize; I open it to find my own handwriting asking, "Did you ever get my letter?" The paper is blank except for the crease where my thumb pressed too hard, trying to make the words real.