Dead End Delivery Service

To those with wishes,

To those with grudges,

To those still bound by duty,

To those still bound by regret,

To those who wish to remember,

To those who wish to forget,

To those souls which are broken,

To those souls which are burdened,

To those who wait,

To those who are awaited,

To you many,

To you few,

We now offer our services.

Dead End Delivery

--

Prologue

Liam Greyson stopped his old, decrepit bicycle in front of cracked white paint and vine-covered wood. He checked the address on the weathered house to be sure he was in the right place and when the numbers on the neatly wrapped box marked Express Mail absolutely matched the ones etched in curly-cues on the mailbox, he took a deep breath and pushed at the picket gate. The hinges groaned in protest and the little bell attached to the lock made a dull dong dong sound. He imagined that back in the day, they might have made a ding, but they, like everything else in this house, were far too old for that.

As if summoned from the shadows within, an old woman appeared behind the torn screen door, eyeing him curiously before emerging with a hobbling step. Her wispy white hair whirled like a cloud around her head, almost disappearing in her pale gown. There was a little black cat circling her feet and mewing in high keening tones for attention.

“Afternoon, ma’am.” He tipped his work-issue baseball cap and nodded awkwardly in her direction. The old lady smiled a mother’s smile, a sincere curve of the lips that spread across the wrinkles in her face and reached the ones in her eyes. He thought he saw hope in that smile, even relief. It made his job a little easier; she remembered why he was here.

“Did that nice young woman send you?” She finally asked in a voice cracking like aged paint and wood.

He resisted the urge to scoff: she’s anything but a nice young woman. But this old woman didn’t need to know that, so he just smiled amicably and said: “Yes, ma’am.”

“Is that for me?” The hope he saw before flashed across her countenance once more and he knew if he looked at her eyes they would be focused on the parcel in his hands.

“Yes, ma’am.” He repeated. He held out the box and watched as her old, wrinkled hands wrapped around the corners, felt it growing lighter and lighter until the weight had completely transferred from his hands to hers. “Special Delivery. I was told it was urgent.”

“Yes.” The relieved look returned to her face and he knew she was well prepared. She must have been waiting for this chance for a while, or maybe something was waiting for her. “Thank you. Good. Tell your employer I am very grateful for everything.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He said for the third time that day. A curt nod and he was on his way, turning on his heel with hands stuffed in coat pockets. There was nothing more to be said here. His job was done, what was left now was between this woman and whatever was in the box he left in her withered hands. And it wasn’t his place to ask, his pay might get docked.

There was a little gust of wind that stung his face as he reached the scratched-up gate again, fumbling with the lock. Gates were always harder to open from the inside than the out. Ding ding, went the bell and it took him a moment to process the fact that the sound was different, that the bell itself was shinier, that less than a minute of conversation had reversed years of age. Pausing, he chanced a look behind him: the woman was gone, the house pristine. New paint, trimmed bushes, a bright red door behind undamaged screening and thriving pots of flowers. Everything was old and now nothing was.

And on the floor was a crumpled mess of wrapping paper and an empty box. Through the folds and distortions he could see Ex-ss M-il written in generic red letters on generic brown material. The cat pawed at it absentmindedly, took a long look at him with knowing yellow eyes, and trotted off somewhere hidden where it could probably live forever if it tried.

The wind whooshed through again, kicking up the wrapping paper on the ground, whisking it away someplace secret and far away. His blonde bangs were pushed in front of tired jade eyes and he sighed, hugging his jacket closer to his body. Turning away, he remounted his bicycle with a pointed nudge to the kickstand. It was probably best to be back, he might be able to scrounge up one last job before the day was done and then he could get paid overtime. Pedals turned with effort and the wheels on his bike creaked in complaint for having been put back to use so soon. He took one last curious look at the new house that had been old two minutes ago, only slowing his wheels just enough. Secretly, he wished the same thing would happen to his bicycle.

Down the street, the blurry outlines of two men in neat black suits and neat black hats approached and Liam decided - half on instinct, half on carefully developed habit - that it would be best to head in a different direction. It was probably the Mods, shown up just in time to deal with the paperwork and the real estate. He was told to avoid those, too. Mods are dangerous things to a delivery service.

Pulling down his cap for the sake of discretion, he pedaled just a little bit faster. The new old house disappeared behind him quickly and his gut lost the feeling and the desire to look back. Two blocks down and he found himself already halfway to forgetting it.

He’d seen stranger, anyway.