The Mailbox

It was always cold on these grounds.

The trees were laden with fiery leaves of autumn, ones that swayed and broke away from their tethers with a simple gust. The winds here were always chilly, fog kissing the dewy grass that squished under your feet. It would’ve been a grim scene, if not for the sprawling manor school that resided on these grounds.

Covering a staggering amount of land, this manor had maintained its pristine stone façade over many decades, quiet and proud - self-assured in its indestructibility. An individual standing in the presence of such confidence would feel fear and excitement spike their senses, the golden stones gleaming in the gloom of the winter - and yet welcoming you to what could be guaranteed a warm interior.

Such emotions had long since faded from the residents of the place, of course. The prior mingled mess of emotions had now transformed into stern respect - for both the people of the house and the endurance of the campus itself. For this was a school not many could step foot in.

In this imposing school, the library was one place of hustle and bustle. Though maintaining the curtain of silenced focus; there was liveliness to the peaking room that brought comfort. The tables and chairs were of a simple oak, well-loved and used - treated with a fond stroke of polish that made them gleam. The silence in this library echoed in its furnishing, reverberating back to you. The punctures in the din of the quiet were of turning pages, soft sighs and ruffles of sheets were the only sounds that accompanied a person on the way to the shelves.

Once amongst the towering shelves, containing books and tomes and documents holding knowledge of anything and everything under the sun, one could get lost, wide eyed gaze studying the numerous titles and debating what to pick. A common conundrum in a library, of course. Ordinary to find a person perusing the aisles of shelves, confused and enraptured. What wasn’t ordinary however, was the enormous steel box that occupied the very back of the library.

Placed strategically under a window to reflect light in an unassuming manner, it would’ve been excused as a filing cabinet by almost any visitor. However, it wasn’t just a cabinet. It was a mailbox. It seemed silly to put a mailbox in a library, but that’s where the extraordinariness of the situation lay. The contents of this mailbox was reserved for the most prestigious students of the School. The mailbox contained letters. Transported from post offices all over the country, these letters were read each weekend by a selected batch of students.

Consider the practice of The Mailbox an age old tradition. You can think of it like writing to Santa Claus. You wrote out your request and circumstances, delivered the letter to your post-box and the letter would reach where you needed it to. The process wasn’t easy, but it was quick. Everyone who knew about the Mailbox knew what to do, and why. It was just easier like that. The only difference was that instead of a little bunch sitting at the base of a tree, the letter was answered by a lifesaving favor.

The girl who sat at the desk farthest from view bent over one such letter. Hair pulled back neatly into a braid, her fingers ran over the careful creases on the paper, running under important words and phrases. The simple white shirt and black trousers she wore as uniform would’ve been enough to know that she was one of the ‘good kids.’ Pressed to a fault and starched to its ends, the only thing that set her apart were her eyes. Fiery in concentration, they zeroed in on the page as if she could see through it, look at the sender of it directly. When she was done, she folded the letter as carefully as she had received it, slipping it into the folds of her pocket before exiting the library.

Finding the man mentioned in the letter was child’s play. He was a regular at his bar, hanging over the counter till it was time to go home to his abhorrent actions. Getting him to follow her was even easier. Gone was the uniform that made her look younger than she was. Her touches and laughter were practiced, her bait taken without a blink of caution. When she ended her night with the man staring up at her from where he lay at her feet, she only saw the small writing of the little boy this man tormented. When he choked on his final breath, she only saw the little teardrop of anguish staining her letter. Her escape and disappearance were as unnoticeable as her arrival at the bar. The only sign of her deed was the little smile she wore for the rest of the week until she was needed again. She hoped she wouldn’t be, she hoped her colleagues wouldn’t be. But they remained ready.

When she got another letter the next week, mercifully, it was one of gratitude - a little smiley drawn in the place of a name. She tucked it into her folder as well. A keepsake of a child saved. The little spark of relief she felt was carefully concealed. After all, it wasn’t personal. No good deed should ever be. But she liked to know that she had her purpose. And she would read her little letters again.

Until she was needed again.