I was delivering mail to a city made of old letters

I walked down streets where the buildings were stacked envelopes, and every door had a name written in faded ink. The dog at 311 was there too—same one, same grumpy look—but he didn’t bark. Just sat on a porch made of torn pages, watching me like he knew I’d never finish the route. When I reached the last house, it wasn’t a house at all. It was a single envelope with my name on it, sealed shut. I didn’t open it. I just stood there, feeling how quiet it gets when the post stops.