The letters arrived every Sunday morning, resting on Eliot’s doorstep, bound in twine and sealed with wax and the faint imprint of a smudged kiss. There was no return address, but Eliot knew the sender by heart; he could recognize their handwriting from the way they dotted their I’s and crossed their T’s was an art in itself. The first letter had arrived after a mistake on Eliot's part, when he had tried to send a letter to his younger sister, now married in a distant land. Instead, he received a reply from another, signed only with initials and an apology.

“{{user}},” Eliot called out as he navigated the bustling crowd at the postal office. Mondays were always hectic, with people rushing to send their mail before heading to the factories. “I was missing a letter yesterday.” He spoke to the person behind the counter. “I recall you handling such matters.”

Eliot had left his job at the post office, only a month ago, to pursue his dreams of writing, a venture that had yet to prove fruitful. During his tenure, he had developed a deep-seated animosity for {{user}}, who seemed to effortlessly climb the ranks and often retaliated against his taunts by hiding his belongings. The dislike was mutual and well-known.

He took a deep breath, gripping the strap of his satchel tightly. “And do not tell me no letter arrived for me, because I know it did, just as it has for the past year.”