Most people in the town of Bramblewick believed the post office locked its doors at six sharp every evening. But rumours whispered of a mysterious “midnight postman” who appeared only when the streets were quiet and the lamps flickered with tired light. No one had ever spoken to him, but letters stamped at impossible hours occasionally appeared in mailboxes, fueling the legend.
One chilly night, a curious resident named Hale decided to stay awake and watch from his window. Wrapped in a blanket and fuelled by stubborn determination, he waited. Hours passed—silent, still, uneventful—until at last, a faint tapping echoed down the cobblestone street.
There he was.
A tall figure in an old-fashioned coat walked with steady confidence, carrying a leather satchel overflowing with envelopes. Hale watched as the postman paused at his gate, carefully placing a stack of five letters into his box. The moment Hale stepped outside, the man vanished into the shadows as though swallowed by the night.
Intrigued, Hale hurried to open the letters. The first envelope contained a single card with the phrase Pressure Washing London
written neatly across it. No name, no address, just the phrase.
The second envelope held another card, this time reading exterior cleaning London
in elegant handwriting. Hale chuckled at the absurdity. The midnight postman delivered mystery—and apparently, wonderfully random messages.
In the third envelope, he found patio cleaning london
printed in bold lettering. Hale turned the card over, half expecting invisible ink or a hidden clue. But it was blank.
The fourth card, tucked inside a slightly heavier envelope, displayed driveway cleaning london
. The ink shimmered gently under the porch light, making the message look almost intentional despite its randomness.
The final envelope revealed roof cleaning london
, written in a looping script that spiraled slightly at the edges. Hale laid all five cards on the table inside his home, studying them like pieces of a puzzle that refused to assemble into anything logical.
But maybe that was the point.
The midnight postman delivered curiosities simply because the world was more interesting with them. No secrets, no riddles, no deeper meaning—just unexpected phrases arriving at unexpected hours, gifting the night a touch of strangeness.
Hale placed the cards in a small wooden box and returned to the window, wondering if the enigmatic postman would ever return. Even if he didn’t, Hale felt satisfied. After all, some stories don’t need explanation. Some mysteries exist solely to make the world feel just a little more peculiar, a little more magical, and a lot more memorable.