Work Text:
The basement of the Peace Valley Post Office was silent, save for the occasional scuttle of something unseen in the far corners. It was dark, dimly lit by an old desk lamp with a flickering bulb, casting long shadows over the discarded letters and crumpled advertisements that had been deemed unworthy of delivery.
Carl Clatterbuck—The Mailman—settled into his usual chair, brushing aside a heap of unwanted flyers as he produced a fountain pen from the pocket of his coat. He turned over the nearest scrap of disregarded mail—a wrinkled ad for a limited-time car insurance deal—and in perfect, looping cursive, began to write.
"There are few in this world who understand the burdens of a courier. Fewer still who recognize the weight of duty, the sacred trust placed in our hands, only to be ignored by those who receive our toil without a second thought. But tonight… tonight, I met a fellow forsaken."
He reached for another torn envelope, continuing without pause.
"Barnaby Bubbleton—an absurd name for an absurd ghost. And yet, I find myself unable to mock him for it, for I, too, suffer under the curse of an undignified moniker. To speak it aloud is to feel the universe itself chuckle at my expense."
Carl sighed, pausing to tap the end of his pen against his chin. He flipped over an old water bill and resumed.
"Boxes and letters. Storage and delivery. Two sides of the same coin, and yet neither respected as they should be. Do they not see? Do they not understand? We hold civilization together, and yet we are but afterthoughts to the living. Forgotten, ignored, cast aside—"
The tip of his pen caught on the torn edge of the paper, and he exhaled sharply. He was getting carried away again. With practiced control, he finished the line with a perfect flourish and set the page down atop the growing stack of defiled junk mail.
His gaze drifted toward the small box sitting on his desk—one that had arrived not through any official means, but rather… materialized. A crude label scrawled in a hand that offended his sensibilities read simply: TO: CARL. FROM: BARNABY.
With great reluctance, he peeled back the tape and lifted the lid. Inside, wrapped in an unnecessary amount of packing material, sat a plate of pancakes.
Carl narrowed his eyes. They were… surprisingly intact. Suspiciously warm. And, despite himself, the faint scent of syrup made his stomach twist in longing.
With slow, deliberate movements, he picked up his fork and took a bite. The pancake was fluffy, the syrup just the right amount of sweet.
He chewed thoughtfully, then wiped his mouth with an old, misprinted coupon before reaching for his pen once more.
On the back of a crumpled election pamphlet, in pristine cursive, he added one final note:
"Perhaps… not all deliveries are unwelcome."