After the last delivery, the mailbox on Maple Street opens its slot a little wider and reads the postcards aloud to the geranium on the sill. The plant nods at every address, as if checking that each traveler has somewhere warm to go.
We asked at the kiosk across the way. "I thought a neighbor was whispering in the hall," said Mrs. Pell, who waters the geranium on Tuesdays. "Then I saw the flap move, and it was only the mail saying good night."
A polite card appeared on the box this morning: Evening readings begin at dusk. Kindly do not rattle the slot until the last postcard has been tucked in.
The next day someone left a tiny bookmark in the opening. By evening it had been returned, slightly warm, with a thank-you smudge of pollen.