There is an old postbox by the edge of the woods. I came upon it by night. It seemed ancient, like a standing stone in the mist.
The next day, I dropped a postcard into it, with some address I’d made up. I’m not certain why. I think I just wanted to see what would happen.
I have received many letters since. They bear strange stamps and strange postmarks. Some are written in runes I cannot identify. Others boast addresses from Atlantis or Hy Brasil or Broseliand Beneath the Waves.
I have never answered. Still the letters come.
Word Count: 100
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