In the quiet town of Bramblewick, the mail always arrived on time—except for the letters delivered by Arthur Penrose. Arthur wasn’t just any postman. He carried a worn leather satchel, a pocket watch that ticked backwards, and an uncanny ability to deliver mail to people who lived decades ago.
No one quite knew how it worked. Arthur would set out in the morning with his usual stack of envelopes. Some were addressed to current residents, but others bore names long gone sometimes TARITOTO from a century earlier. Strangely, the recipients were always home when he knocked. They’d open the door, dressed in clothes from another era, and greet him as if they’d been expecting him.
The townsfolk whispered about it. “Maybe he’s a ghost,” some said. Others believed Arthur had stumbled upon a secret postal route that wound through time itself. Arthur never explained. He’d just smile, tip his cap, and carry on.
His deliveries often changed small things in the present. A woman once received a thank-you note from her grandmother—dated 1923—and the next morning, a long-lost family recipe appeared in her kitchen drawer. Another man received a warning from his father, written before the man was even born, telling him to avoid a certain business deal. He listened, and months later, the deal collapsed in scandal.
Arthur never seemed surprised by these outcomes. He claimed the letters “always find who they’re meant for, even if time is in the way.”
One autumn, a strange envelope appeared in his satchel. It had no return address, only his own name written in elegant handwriting. The postmark read Bramblewick, 2074. Inside was a single sheet of paper:
“Arthur, this is your last delivery. Once you finish today’s route, you may finally rest. Thank you for carrying the words of the past and future.”
He didn’t know what to make of it. Rest? From what? Still, he finished his route as usual—walking down cobblestone streets, handing over letters to both the living and the long departed.
That evening, as the sun set over Bramblewick, Arthur returned to the post office. His satchel was empty for the first time in decades. The clock on the wall ticked backwards once… then stopped.
The next morning, a new postman took over. He found Arthur’s old satchel hanging on the hook, completely ordinary except for one thing: inside was a letter addressed to him, in his own handwriting, from twenty years in the future.
Bramblewick still receives strange mail now and then—letters from impossible dates, postcards from people who haven’t been born yet. The townsfolk have stopped questioning it. After all, the mail always arrives exactly when it’s meant to.
And somewhere, perhaps in another time, Arthur Penrose is still walking his route, carrying words across the years.