I count my steps.
One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.
Even numbers.
Safe.
But it doesn't feel safe today.
The employees I usually see—Marcus with his permanent coffee stain on his tie, Linda with her reading glasses perpetually perched on her nose, Jerome who always smells faintly of cigarettes and regret—are nowhere to be found. The space behind the counter is empty, shadows pooling in corners that shouldn't have corners.
My toe taps against the floor:tap-tap-tap-tap.
Four times. Even number.
Something's wrong, something's wrong, something's wrong?—
I reach the service desk and slam my palm down on the bell.
DING.
The sound echoes through the empty space, too loud, too bright, bouncing off walls that seem to absorb it hungrily.
Silence answers.
My fingers drum against the counter—index, middle, ring, pinky, pinky, ring, middle, index—a pattern that soothes the screaming thing inside my chest. The letter crinkles in my other hand, cream paper against bloodstained fingers, and I realize I'm gripping it too tight.
Relax. Breathe. Two counts in, four counts hold, eight counts out.
I try.
It doesn't work.
"Hello?" My voice comes out sing-song sweet, that practiced cheerfulness I've perfected over years of pretending I'm not falling apart. "Anyone home? It's your favorite deranged customer here for her weekly dose of postal services and human interaction!"
A shuffling sound from the back room.
Then footsteps—slow, reluctant, like whoever's approaching would rather be anywhere else.
The employee who emerges is one I recognize: Maria.
Mid-forties, tired eyes, the kind of face that's seen too much and given up on being surprised by any of it. She's worked the Wednesday morning shift for as long as I've been coming here, and she's always greeted me with the same weary resignation.
But today?—
Today, she looks sad.
Not annoyed. Not exasperated.
Not even afraid, which is the usual response when people realize who I am and what I've done.
Just... sad.
The expression sits wrong on her face, like a mask that doesn't quite fit, and something in my chest clenches painfully.
"Morning, Maria." I force brightness into my voice, tilting my head at an angle I know makes me look curious rather than threatening. "You're looking particularly gloomy today. Did someone die? I mean, someone always dies around here, but did someoneimportantdie?"
She doesn't smile.
