When Ethan took over the mail route from old Mr. Fitzwilliam, he saw a chance for peak efficiency. His plan was simple: cut the dead weight. That included the twelve derelict, forgotten houses on Old County Lane—a place no one had lived for fifty years. Why was the old mailman delivering strange, brittle letters to collapsing ruins?
In the name of optimization, Ethan stopped the deliveries. And that's when his own mail started arriving.
One by one, letters began appearing for him—in his mailbox, on his car, in his locker at work. They were written in a spidery, old-fashioned script and smelled of damp earth. The messages were personal, impossible, and deeply unsettling. They knew his routine. They knew his secrets. He soon discovers the mail was never for the houses, but for the addresses, and that some deliveries are not a service, but a pact. A pact he just broke.
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