In a quiet coastal town where the sea whispered its secrets to the rocks, an old postman named Thomas delivered letters no one expected anymore. At seventy-three, with a leather satchel worn from decades of use, Thomas had become a familiar sight cycling up the winding paths, rain or shine, always with a nod and a smile.
But there was one house he hadn’t delivered to in years an abandoned blue cottage at the edge of the cliffs, once home to a woman named Eliza. They said she had vanished one autumn evening without a trace, leaving behind only a dusty piano and a garden full of untended daisies.
One rainy Tuesday, Thomas found something strange at the post office: a single envelope, yellowed at the edges, addressed to Eliza Whitmore, Cliffside Cottage, Seaglass Lane. No return address. No stamp. Just Eliza’s name written in delicate cursive, almost like a whisper on paper.
Curiosity pulled Thomas back to the blue cottage. He hesitated at the rusted gate, then pushed it open with a creak. The door wasn’t locked. Inside, the air smelled of salt and time. He walked in slowly, placing the envelope gently on the dusty table.
That night, the storm came.
Lightning cracked across the sky, and in its brief flash, a passerby swore they saw light in the cottage window for the first time in years. The next morning, the blue cottage was empty again, but the letter was gone.
Thomas never saw another letter for Eliza. But sometimes, on quiet evenings, villagers said they heard music soft piano notes floating from the cottage to the sea, like a message finally delivered.