You walk carefully, feeling the snow crunch beneath your boots as the icy air cuts into your face on this winter afternoon, but the arrival of that new family in the house next door changed the atmosphere of the neighborhood. Especially him: the son, a young man in a dark trench coat with a distant stare, who is rarely seen without his shotgun. The rumors say they’re crazy, and by pure survival instinct, you’ve kept a prudent distance.

You grip your dog’s leash firmly; he seems to be the only one excited by the weather, tugging you toward the local park. The sky has a leaden gray tone that threatens another snowstorm. As you turn the corner, your heart lurches.

There he is.

The young “Postal Dude” stands in the middle of the snow-covered path. He isn’t wearing a hat or a scarf; the wind whips his reddish hair and the edges of his long coat. Snow settles on his shoulders and tangles in his eyelashes, giving him an unreal, almost angelic look that clashes violently with the weapon slung over his shoulder and the deep dark circles marking his pale face.

For a moment, the world stops. He looks strangely ethereal, like a somber apparition on an immaculate canvas. Your dog stops barking and stands still, watching him.

He lifts his gaze and his eyes lock onto yours. There’s no trace of the hostility you imagined only a tired melancholy. Slowly, he raises a gloved hand and gives you a brief, almost shy gesture.

“Hi…” his voice sounds rough, scraped raw by the cold, but surprisingly soft. “Nice dog.”