The Post Office Offered No Such Service

Jian's ability did not appear on the post office's list of services.

If she held an empty envelope between her palms for three breaths, the paper became warm. It had to be empty. Anything inside prevented it from working; sealing the flap cooled it immediately.

The warmth lasted three minutes.

When the manager heard about it, he asked whether she could keep parcels hot. She shook her head. He told her to deal with the returned mail.

During the last month before the office moved, a man began visiting. Each day he bought an envelope and sat by the window to write. Eventually he folded the paper into his coat. The empty envelope remained on the table like an unused ticket.

On the fourth day Jian offered to replace the pen.

“The pen's fine,” he said.

On the fifth, the page contained only “Dear Sis.” A dot of ink followed, as though someone had stopped at a door.

The heating failed that afternoon. He rubbed his hands. Jian warmed a fresh envelope and slid it across. He touched it and looked up.

“A new service?”

“No. It goes cold in three minutes.”

He smiled but did not finish the letter.

After that he waited for her to warm an envelope every time. Glad to be useful, Jian began washing and drying her hands in advance. She even prepared an explanation about this paper being suitable for important words.

He never asked. He simply arrived earlier, while the number of words stayed the same.

On the final day, the manager had Jian remove the old table. A notice on the door showed the new address. The man stopped by the empty window.

“Nowhere to write today?”

“There's a folding table.”

He shook his head and took out a bundle of unsent pages. Each began “Dear Sis.” One contained half a sentence, heavily crossed out.

“I'll send it when I've thought it through.”

Jian had already picked up an envelope. He held out his hand. She put it down again.

“The warmth won't make her forgive you.”

She regretted it immediately. She knew nothing about them. He withdrew his hand; his smile disappeared.

“I don't even know whether forgiveness is involved,” she said quickly. “I shouldn't have said that.”

The manager called her to move the table. She went a few steps, returned, and placed an ordinary envelope and pen on the counter.

“I can only warm paper. You decide what goes in the letter.”

He said nothing.

Half an hour later he brought her a sealed envelope to weigh. The address was written in small letters. She applied the ordinary postage, without trying to warm it or asking what he had written.

At the door he turned back to return the pen.

“Will you have these at the new place?”

“Yes.”

During the move, Jian found a draft by the window. She put it into the shredding bag without opening it. The manager asked whether her ability had proved useful after all.

She was holding an empty envelope in both hands. It had just become warm. There were no words inside yet.

“Sometimes,” she said.

Beneath the new address she wrote: Mum, I'll come for lunch on Sunday. Don't make too much.

By the time she finished, the envelope was cold. She put the letter inside and sealed it.