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As the new postmaster of this quaint little sleepy village of Dorfli, I had little to look forward to. I braced myself up for a sleepy day ahead.

An old lady walked into the post office, hunched, frail, trembling- what stood out were her glistening eyes. She looked at me eagerly as I searched for a letter in the name of Doris Weismann. I found one and was about to hand it over when something struck me as out of place. The postcard had the sender’s address which referred to a city called Hope. Never heard of this place, strange it seemed.

Doris started getting impatient and I handed over the letter, her trembling hands reached out with excitement all over her face as she walked back, I could feel the spring in her step, I swear.

This became a fortnightly ritual and the letters kept coming. I discovered these are from her son who had moved to Italy years ago and never visited but always sent letters and a yearly Christmas present for his old mother. The son’s return address stood out like a sore thumb, I was determined to uncover the truth and I did just that.

This was just a fake place that had been made up, perhaps he dint want her to know his real address lest she come visiting.

As I was immersed in deep thought charting out various possibilities, a young girl came to post her letter as always. She had the most wonderful smile, something that goes straight to your heart. Perhaps writing to her father at war or a cousin I thought.

I flipped the letter by chance and saw something that brought a smile to face and reminded me that whatever the world may come to, love and hope still remained intact.

Written in response to the photo prompt for FictionMondays hosted Vinitha

Image courtesy- Photo by Roman Koval on Pexels.com