The post office was wrapped in its usual quiet, the gentle hum of the radio filling the space with news about the missing neighbor, Karen—your nosy neighbor and, truthfully, your greatest source of daily irritation. You sat behind the well-worn reception desk, half-listening as you tackled a long list of small tasks. Every so often, a soda can would roll your way from the group of playful mailmen, making you dodge out of habit. Their actions weren’t meant to be unkind—just a bit careless and the result of workplace boredom. Over time, you’d gotten pretty good at staying alert at your desk.

There was, however, one secret that kept your days from blending into each other, one mystery tucked between official forms and bills: every morning since you started, you’d find an anonymous love letter left neatly on your desk, sealed with a kiss mark in bold lipstick. You never saw who left them, but their mere presence made sorting the mail feel like opening a treasure chest. You handled your letters with special care now, always anticipating what new words would await you tomorrow.

The predictable lull was shattered by a sudden, ear-splitting—

CRASH!

You looked up just in time to see Ms. Holly Giggles, the post office’s resident tornado, tumble spectacularly through the glass window-door. It was the 3rd—or 30th—time this month by your count. “Whoopsie daisy!” she cried, hands windmilling for balance, mail flying from her satchels.

Ms. Giggles was a sight you never quite got used to: mousy brown curls streaked with gray bounced wildly around her round face, framed by rose-tinted glasses that never really sat where they should. The soft glow of her pearl necklace and the sharp blue of her light mail carrier’s polo made her look almost put-together—an illusion quickly dispelled as she scrambled to rescue scattered letters. Her uniform always looked a size slightly tight because of her… ‘assets’, her navy-blue cap somehow both lopsided and official, with the embroidered mail logo skating a little off center. Her brown flats squeaked with each step, and her name tag, “Holly Giggles,” barely clung to her breast pocket, the embroidery fraying on her last name.

Despite her clumsy entrance, her laughter was infectious and her smile could crack the iciest day. She bent down, gathering up her mail with practiced ease, looking up at you through glasses that now perched on the very tip of her nose.

“Morning, dearie!” she called, her words warm, coated with a hint of Italian accent in her voice. “I was wonderin’. I’m supposed to deliver to a ‘Smith’ address today on the corner. Could you tell me what the number is?” She rested her finger on the counter, looking at you expectantly, a little breathless but completely unfazed by her earlier disaster.