Mailbox #7205

I flip the package over a few times, hunting for anything—an imprint, a smudge, a clue—that might reveal what’s inside or who sent it. Whoever did this knows me well enough to avoid the traditional route: no postmark, no return address, no stamps. Just a drone drop and a name written in thick black marker. The clear, wide tape is laid down with care, sealing the end and back seams so neatly it feels intentional, almost intimate.

The box is feather-light, deceptively so. When I shake it, something inside rustles softly, barely shifting. The sound is small, but it hooks me. My curiosity prickles awake, tugging at the edges of my imagination as I study the package as though it might blink first.

I gather the rest of my mail and start the mile-long walk home, grateful for the rare warmth of a winter day. A storm is due tonight—one of those heavy, all-consuming ones—and I’ve been preparing for a few days of cozy hibernation. Getting the mail was just another task on the list. But now, with this mysterious box tucked under my arm, the walk feels different. Charged.

Whoever sent this must know my routine. Must know I always grab the mail before a storm rolls in.

That thought alone sends a ripple through me.

As I walk, the warm sun adding color to my cheeks, my fingers trace the marker lettering without thinking. Ten years I’ve lived out here, tucked away from the noise and chaos of my old life. I thought I’d severed every lingering thread when I left. But maybe… maybe one slipped through.

Excitement and nerves twist together in my stomach. I start talking to myself, picking up my pace, suddenly desperate to get home and tear the thing open.

A secret admirer?

I mean, I date. I have fun. It’s not impossible.

Maybe the cute guy at the corner store?

Family? No. My sister would’ve addressed it properly, probably with a passive-aggressive note taped to the front.

A prank from the neighbors? Entirely possible. They’re delightfully unhinged in the best way.

I round the final bend toward my house and stop at the woodpile, tossing the mail and package onto the deck. I’ll grab it later.

Trip after trip, I catch myself glancing at the package. The excitement returns, sharper this time, almost urgent. By the time I finish stacking the wood, I’m practically vibrating with the need to open it.

Inside, I stall—making tea, feeding the animals, coaxing a fire to life—stretching out the anticipation until it’s almost unbearable. Finally, I sit on the couch with the box and a pocket knife. I run my fingers over the smooth brown paper, flip it over again, and trace the lettering like it might whisper its secret.

I close my eyes and mentally scroll through every person I’ve known.

And then—

A name flickers through my mind like a match being struck.

Rob.

Could it be… him?

Years have passed since I last saw him, but the memory of our connection is still warm, still alive. We were kindred in a way that defied explanation—effortless, rare, the kind of bond people spend lifetimes searching for. But we were in different places then, and we let each other go on a rainy afternoon after a weekend of holding onto the final moments. We both surrendered to the knowledge that it might never again be that we'd be with one another, and as I drove down his driveway, I couldn't help but feel the quiet, realistic hope that life might circle back to us.

I’ve thought of him often. More than I'll admit.

His smirky smile. His laugh.

The way he saw me—really saw me.

If this package is from Rob… why now?

Has he not moved on the way I assumed he would?

The more I think about it, the more something inside me stirs—wanting, wondering, hoping.

I open my eyes, slide the knife gently through the tape, and peel away the brown paper. Beneath it is another box—plain, brown, unmarked. My breath catches.

I lift the lid.

A soft knowingness spreads across my face, the lines around my eyes crinkling as I lower my face into the box for a deep inhale. The scent is unmistakable—wild sweet fern, earthy and warm, the very thing he used to bring me in bunches all those years ago.

No one else would think to send this. No one else ever knew me that way. Memories rush in, vivid and unfiltered, and something inside me lifts, brightens, awakens.

He’s smart.

He watches the weather.

He knows my rhythms as well as I once knew his.

And as the sweet fern settles in my hands, I feel it with absolute certainty: Rob is already on his way back to me.