The first time, he asked for a postcard without a landmark.
We had a bridge, a tower, a lake, and last year's night view. The building in that view had been demolished; the cards had not sold out. He inspected them all and bought the demolished building.
Next day he asked again.
“I told you yesterday.”
As if remembering, he pointed below the counter. “Blank ones would do.”
I found an unopened pack. He bought five and wrote at the little table by the door. Checking the address before posting, I noticed sender and recipient shared a name: Cheng Nan.
Travelers send themselves cards. I did not ask.
But he was not traveling. He appeared nearly every afternoon in one of two shirts and the same shoes. His left lace hung longer and dragged when he hurried.
Sometimes he wrote only two or three lines. I did not read them. Writing to himself did not make the words mine.
After a week I asked whether the address was always home.
“Yes.”
“Why not photograph it?”
He considered. “Then I wouldn't look again.”
Today's card showed a leaning tree he had drawn. Its crown resembled an upside-down glove.
“Where's that?”
“Back street.”
Three years working here, and I had never seen it. He gave directions: alley, bicycle repair stall, right turn. A parcel customer interrupted, and I forgot the rest.
After closing I found it outside an old photo studio, half hidden by a sign. Only from the other side did it resemble his drawing. I photographed it to send him, then remembered we had no contact details.
Next day I told him the tree was different.
“How?”
“You missed a branch.”
He enlarged the photo. “Add it tomorrow.”
“I didn't mean correct it before posting.”
“That's all right. Another drawing tomorrow.”
I finally asked why he sent one every day.
He produced a thin booklet of tickets, maps, and folded paper. A large “100” filled the first page. I caught “cities” in the writing below.
“Wanted to go to a hundred places.”
“And?”
“Haven't yet.”
I waited for a reason that required him to remain. Instead he put the booklet away and asked for a pencil. His had broken before he finished the branches.
I lent him one. Leave it here afterward, I said.
He usually came with a lunchbox. After eating he walked an unfamiliar route, then returned to write. His office was nearby; work resumed at one-thirty, and his watch alarm rang at one-fifteen.
Not every day offered something beautiful. Once he found only a long wall and had to retrace his steps.
“No card today, then.”
He drew a line with a bend. “There's a gap here. You can see inside.”
“What's inside?”
“Another wall.”
We laughed.
I had expected the cards to become prettier, like selected travel memories in a shop. They did not. Rain blurred some. Some drawings remained unfinished. Lunchbox oil stained a back. He posted them and received them at home days later.
“Sometimes I've forgotten sending one. Then it arrives and I remember where I went.”
Near autumn's end I was assigned to help at another branch. Not far, but another transfer after work. I argued with the manager, then signed the schedule anyway.
I told Cheng Nan. He asked where. I named the place and complained that it had nothing but malls and parking lots; I would not even know where to eat.
“Been there?”
“On the bus.”
He said nothing and took his card.
Next day he arrived early with a hand-drawn map: arrows, a noodle shop, a square labeled “Tree, possibly banyan—not sure.”
“Looked around yesterday.”
“All that way at lunch?”
“After work. Don't know whether the noodles are good. It was open. Here's a bridge. You can walk beside the river.”
The cramped map was instantly understandable. The road that flashed past a bus window suddenly had places to stop.
I put it in my bag and asked about his hundred places.
“Still going. Saving up.”
I felt relieved. I did not want him to say this was enough, as if an unfinished wish could be explained beautifully enough to excuse never finishing it.
On my last shift he missed lunchtime. A message said a meeting had run late: could I leave a card aside? We had finally exchanged details because the map lacked the route back to the station.
I kept a blank one. He arrived breathless before closing, without his lunchbox.
“No walk?”
“No time.”
He sat with the pencil motionless. I counted stock nearby, tempted to hurry him, then decided the silence could remain.
At last he read aloud: “Meeting finished late. Didn't go anywhere new. Yesterday's leftover rice spoiled. Need to buy rice tonight.”
I laughed. A task list, not a postcard.
“Then I'll post a task list.”
The address was home again, the handwriting larger.
A few days later, after lunch at the new branch, I followed his map. The noodle shop was shut. The tree did not look like a banyan. But a riverside path really did avoid the car park.
At the bridge's center a vehicle passed behind me. I did not immediately turn. Across the river, wind lifted a drying sheet and revealed a yellow door.
Back at work I chose a blank card and wrote my address. I paused a long time over the message.
“There is a bridge here,” I wrote.
Then: “Tomorrow I could cross it and look at that door.”