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The Red Mailbox

A baby curiously touching a man's face while he lies on grass.
“I told my mailbox a joke, but it didn’t laugh. It’s more of a dead-letter office.”

Every afternoon Harold walks to the faded red mailbox. Twenty years ago, he carried a letter to it, an apology, a confession. He didn’t mail it, and so it grew yellow in a drawer. Today he reaches for the letter, hand trembling with hope and regret. Mailboxes won’t wait forever.