Just a scrap of paper,
a tired hand,
It wasn’t Elsie’s hand this time.
She’s still lingering somewhere between the walls, humming to herself in old ink and grief.
This one came from another ghost.
A quieter one.
A little feral, a little late, but still willing to work the mailroom.
If you find something sealed, tucked, or out of place…
you weren’t meant to return it.
You were meant to keep it.
The post office is open again.
Uneven hours. Strange staff.
No refunds.
Little Ghost Post 