I was delivering letters to the moon last night

Not the kind with craters or dust—just a clean, white surface with a mailbox at the center, like something out of a children's book. I walked in my old postal boots, the ones that creaked when I turned. The mail wasn’t for anyone living. It was all from people who’d forgotten they were gone. I handed them over one by one, and each time I did, the moon dimmed a little. When I finished, the mailbox vanished. I stood there in silence, and then I heard the dog at 311 barking at nothing again. I woke up still holding an envelope with no name on it.