Letters Never Rush

An old bicycle leaning against a stone wall, a canvas bag of letters hanging from the handlebars, morning mist in the background

Kenji had delivered mail for eleven years. He'd never once been in a hurry.

A row of old wooden mailboxes along a dirt path, each one unique, painted different faded colors

He knew every mailbox by feel. The one with the loose hinge. The one that smelled like cedar.