The Letter
written by: Dmitry Berkut
Rui-Miguel checked the address for the third time. 347 Alegria Street. The envelope was yellowing at the edges—fingers, damp from the mail sack, time itself had left their marks. Three months wasn’t long for a letter, but long enough for it to become part of his routine.
At first, he tried to find the addressee. Asked the neighbors what the man looked like, rang the bell at different hours. A woman on the third floor said the tenant had moved out a month ago, maybe two. Where to—she didn’t know. Rui-Miguel should have sent the letter back, stamped addressee unknown. Standard procedure. Or at least dropped it at Souza’s barbershop.
But the letter never left his bag.
Every morning he carried it with him, tucked between bills and flyers. He felt its presence—almost weightless, but always there. Sometimes he’d take it out, hold it for a while, study the handwriting: blue ink, neat, leaning slightly to the right.
No one at the office ever checked. The letter made its rounds: from the main post office to Alegria Street, past Senhor Pereira’s bakery, through the square with the fountain, along the tram tracks. At the end of the day it came home with him. Rui-Miguel began to think of it as company. It saw what he saw: the dog barking behind the fence on República, the old man with his newspaper on the bench, the girl with the red backpack running late for school. On rainy days he wrapped it in plastic. In the heat, he kept it shaded. Once, a gust almost tore it from his hands—he caught it at the last second, pressed it to his chest. The paper crinkled under his fingers. His heart pounded. Losing the letter frightened him more than losing the job.
Winter passed. Magnolias bloomed in the square. Spring came. The envelope had softened, its corners rounded. Rui-Miguel knew every crease, every speck on it. Sometimes he thought he felt warmth in the paper.
He recognized him right away, in the supermarket. The man stood by the canned goods, head tilted slightly left. The way you recognize someone you’ve never met: by intuition, instinctively. By the address, the handwriting, three months of the same route. Rui-Miguel froze, basket in hand. The letter was in his jacket pocket. The man turned. Their eyes met. He blinked, put the tuna back. Rui-Miguel drew the letter out, slowly. Worn but intact. The addressee looked from the envelope to the postman.
And waited.
Seconds stretched. Bossa nova on the speakers. Then a yogurt commercial. Rui-Miguel held the letter halfway between them, his fingers refusing to let go.
He thought of the empty flat on Alegria Street. Of the hundreds of identical routes. Of the familiar weight in his bag. Of tomorrow’s emptiness.
The man stepped forward, held out his hand. Rui-Miguel pulled the letter back against his chest. They stood like that for a moment—two men by the canned goods, with three months between them.
Rui-Miguel nodded, turned, and walked to the exit. The basket stayed where it was. He slipped the envelope back inside his pocket. The letter warmed his chest through the thin shirt. Outside, a fine rain was falling. He zipped his jacket to the chin, checked that the letter was safe.
Tomorrow morning he would take it out again. Past the bakery, through the square, along the tram tracks.
The rain thickened. He put a hand over the pocket and hurried home. He still needed to buy milk.
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