Working for the Royal Mail used to be something Stephen felt great pride in, carrying on the family tradition of his great-great-great uncle, Samuel Robertson. He had been a forthright gentleman, by all accounts.
Stephen unlocked the curved door of the letterbox and removed the basket from its belly. In a few minutes, the hungry mouth that had swallowed thousands of letters for decades would be blocked up, probably forever. What a sad day.
Reaching into the gloom, Steve ran his hand inside before locking it shut. ‘Just making sure,’ he thought, not really expecting to find anything.
The dusty, dirty envelope he pulled out looked like it had been trapped inside for decades. The writing was faded, but Steve could just make out the name on the front of the envelope. “’Mr Stephen Robertson’,” he read, surprised. “That’s me! But…?”
He opened it, hastily, furtively. It was addressed to him, but how could it be? Was he breaking the law, he wondered? He pulled out the single piece of paper, hands shaking.
“’Dear Stephen, do not decommission this letterbox. There will be consequences. I remain your servant, Samuel Robertson, Esq.’”
“As you ask, Samuel, mate, as you ask,” thought Stephen, driving away.
Here’s my latest entry into Alistair’s Sunday Photo Fiction. He supplies us with his own wonderful photos, so deserves our support! Happy Sunday, all….
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