@dongguoqing

Every weekday morning, Sarah zipped along the sidewalks of Maple Street, her mailbag heavy with letters, packages, and the occasional surprise. As the neighborhood mail carrier, she knew everyone’s routines, favorite flowers, and even which houses had the friendliest dogs. There was one house, though, that always caught her attention — number 47. It was a modest little brick home with peeling paint and a garden that had seen better days. Behind its curtains lived Mr. Henry, a quiet elderly widower who had lost his wife, Evelyn, two years earlier. Sarah often saw him sitting alone on his porch, staring at the sky or his wilting roses. He never spoke much, and his mail was mostly bills and a few letters from distant relatives. To Sarah, it seemed like Henry was drifting through his days, wrapped in solitude.

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