Down the end of Lilac Close, there was a small house with a
neatly arranged garden and a pristine white picket fence.
Every weekday morning, around nine, the old man who lived in
the house would open the front door and slowly walk to the mailbox. There, he
would stand, waiting, watching as the postman would make his way down the cul-de-sac,
sometimes fast, sometimes slow.
Every time, the old man would ask if there was a package for
him. For almost twenty years, the answer was no.
The day the answer would have been yes, it went off
prematurely.
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