He noticed it because the envelope was too clean.
No postmark. No stamp. No return address. Just an unnaturally crisp rectangle of pale gray paper, resting at the bottom of his sorting tray like it had always been there, like it had grown there.
He picked it up. It was cold.
Not cold like refrigerated. Like it hadn't been touched by anyone. Like it hadn't been here at all until now.
The envelope bore a single ink symbol — black, spidery, and faintly silent. It shimmered when tilted, but not like foil or metallic ink. More like movement. Like it was waiting to finish becoming something the moment he looked away.
He blinked.
The symbol hadn't changed. Or it had. Or it hadn't.
He tucked the envelope aside, pretending to make a note of it in the ledger — a habit, nothing official. The office didn't care about mail that came in without origin. Most of it was junk. But this one felt… deliberate. Too deliberate.
He moved on. He had six more bins to check before the noon run.
---
The afternoon shift passed in silence, broken only by the tick of the sorting clock and the distant grind of streetcars outside. Rain struck the windows. The damp smell of paper and metal filled the air.
He found himself glancing back toward the envelope three times before lunch. On the fourth, it was gone.
No — he had just filed it with the outgoing local delivery pile. Instinctively. Automatically.
Route 17B.
He stood for a long time, eyes focus in blank space , before he slipped the envelope into his coat pocket instead.
He'd deliver it himself.
---
The building was an old municipal tower near the river — half government offices, half rented flats. The kind of place where records came to die and lonely people filled out forms just to feel real again.
He found the recipient's name on the mailbox: L. Marris. Apt 5A.
He climbed. Fifth floor. The hallway was narrow and soft underfoot, as if the carpet had been soaked and never dried. Door 5A was painted the color of dishwater. He knocked.
No answer.
He slid the envelope under the door.
Paused.
And knocked again.
---
It opened a crack. A woman's eye blinked back at him — blue-gray, sharp. She didn't speak.
"I'm with the post," he said. "This came through today. No return. No code. No route."
He held up the envelope.
The eye widened. The door opened fully now.
She didn't take it.
"Fourth one this month," she said, voice brittle. "The others came through late. This one's on time."
He looked at her. "You were expecting it?"
"No," she said. "But it was expecting me."
He said nothing.
Instead, she stepped aside. "Come in."
Her apartment was clean, but exhausted. Heavy curtains shut out the gray daylight. Plants clung to life on the windowsill. Papers were scattered across a table, and on every page — the symbol.
Drawn in pen. Pencil. Scratched into card stock. Burned into one with the tip of a match. Some were full pages. Some barely a corner.
The same symbol. Over and over.
She laughed. It wasn't pleasant. "If you ever understand it, it'll be the last thing you understand."
She gestured to the table. "I used to be a linguist. Dead languages, mostly. Proto-symbolic systems. Now I dream in this."
A pause.
"You should leave," she added, softly. "Before it learns your name."
He thought it was cringe.
---
He left the envelope with her.
Walked back into the gray rain.
Didn't look back until he reached the street.
She was standing in the window, holding the envelope like it was a knife. "Yes, definitely cringe."
He turned away and didn't return to Route 17B the next day.
But the symbol followed him.
It showed up again in the office a week later.
Different envelope. Different address.
Same ink. Same shimmer.
Same chill.
He began to keep notes.
It's definitely super cringe now. He thinks.