The night shift in the mailroom was Mark’s favorite time. He preferred to work alone, sorting through the undeliverable mail. Most of the time it was due to handwriting that was illegible. But after working in the mailroom for three decades, Mark was an expert.
On this particular night, while mindlessly sorting and labeling, he came across a letter that made him stop suddenly. The handwriting was unmistakable. It was his own. But that was impossible, he thought. He hadn’t written a letter to anyone in ages.
This letter was addressed to him, postmarked on the date of his birth.
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