You routinely open the mailbox. It has long become an unnecessary habit: retrieve the key, insert it into the rusty lock, turn it with a creak. Take a look at the cobwebs and dust. Close it. And so it goes every day, just to give the world some semblance of stability.
This morning started the same way: key, lock, turn, creak, emptiness. Emptiness? Inside the darkness of the mailbox lays a postcard. You look around skeptically, almost frightened: who could have brought it here, anyway? It seems like you're the only one left living in this godforsaken place. You peer at the postcard: it came from afar, from a lost place.
Everything went wrong. A very long time ago. What are you holding in your hands are only...
Consequences
