The Magic Mailbox – or How to Find Love Again

Postman Schwanenflügel has been delivering mail for over forty years. He always follows the same route; he knows every tree and bush. He has also been married for forty years. It is a happy marriage, yet it has become a matter of routine - much like the letters. His daily schedule never changes, even though he loves his wife. But over time, they have found themselves with less and less to say to one another. He knows her and their shared life inside out - just like his route. Sometimes, he longs to simply chat with her again, to share stories just as they used to. Back then, everything was new; they were still getting to know each other, and there was so much to discover.

Mr. Schwanenflügel sighs deeply, picks up his bag filled with letters, and sets off. As he walks, he thinks about this morning with his wife. She didn’t say much, barely smiled, and looked sad. She wouldn’t answer when he asked her why. She simply poured his coffee without a word, packed his sandwich into his bag, and gave him a brief wave as he left the house.
 
Today, postman Schwanenflügel finds his bag particularly heavy; on top of that, it is once again sweltering, and the road is dusty, endless, and lonely - much like his heart. Those countless mailboxes, like ravenous mouths demanding to be stuffed, day in and day out. He takes the first bundle of letters from his bag and begins slipping them into the corresponding mailboxes. The mailboxes vary greatly - they almost seem human. Some are new, with clearly legible names; others are older, weathered by the elements. On some, rust has already eaten through the paint, wearing the metal thin. There is also a mailbox - at house number 17 - that looks as though it is rarely emptied, even though it is new. There is always room for another letter inside; postman Schwanenflügel sometimes marvels at this.
 
There is no name on the mailbox; the house itself is rather small, somewhat dilapidated, and set back from the road. He has never seen anyone there. Over the years, he also became familiar with the residents' mail - letters from banks or insurance companies, bills, holiday postcards, and, of course, correspondence from government agencies. Sometimes there were deeply personal letters, too; he could tell by the handwritten addresses - beautiful, flowing script, carefully placed in the center of the envelope using real ink.
 
Very occasionally, he catches a faint whiff of perfume. When he pulls such a letter from his pocket and slips it into the box, he cannot help but press it briefly against himself. He suddenly remembers his first meeting with his wife and the intimate letters they exchanged back then. But that was a long time ago.
It is exceptionally hot today. Although it is still early morning, sweat is already trickling from his temples into the collar of his uniform. There are still so many letters in his bag! The street seems endless; he wipes his forehead with a handkerchief and steps into the shade of a tree for a moment. He has nearly reached number 17 now and checks his bag to see if he has a letter for that peculiar mailbox today. Sure enough, there it i - and it looks very official.
 
Mr. Schwanenflügel steps out from the shadow of the tree and is just about to slip the letter into the box when he notices that things are not quite as usual. There is something stuck in the mailbox slot. He pulls at it and sees that it is a sheet of letter paper, carefully folded in half. What is he to do with it? To whom is this letter addressed? Like it or not, he has to unfold it - violating the privacy of the mail - and read it; otherwise, he would never be able to find out and deliver it to its rightful recipient. This goes decidedly against Mr. Schwanenflügel’s professional code of honor, and he resolves to get to the bottom of the mystery. He even thinks he can detect a faint scent of perfume.
 
Breathlessly, he reads:
"Esteemed, unknown mailman! I am always delighted to receive the mail that you deliver so conscientiously and faithfully. You never let me down. I am a lonely woman; letters are my whole life, my window to the world—a world I love so much, yet see far too little of. So I am left with only the letters and you, the bearer of them, whom I would love to get to know better. Perhaps you might care to reply; no one would be happier about that than I. Warmest regards, No. 17".
 
Mr. Schwanenflügel can hardly believe his eyes when he reads these words. A woman writing to him - a postman - because she wants to get to know him better?! But that’s impossible; after all, he already has a wife whom he loves. True, they don’t talk as much as they used to, but that silence hasn’t changed his feelings for her. What should he do? He is just a mailman who delivers letters; he isn’t supposed to receive them!
 
At a loss for what to do, he stands for a while in the scorching sun until he finally folds the letter again and tucks it into the breast pocket of his uniform jacket—though not without catching that faint trace of perfume once more. Suddenly, the road - usually so dusty - seems much shorter; he walks faster than usual, and the heat no longer bothers him quite as much. The letter in his breast pocket burns like fire - a sensation he cannot explain. It is a feeling he has not experienced in a long time, and he stops again beneath a tree to take it out and read it - over and over.
 
Finally, it is time to deliver the remaining letters, and he finishes his route earlier than usual—so high are his spirits. Back home with his wife, he can barely conceal his good mood, but she is as reticent as ever, and before long, they both slip back into their habitual silence. The next morning is much the same, yet he is eager to check mailbox number 17 to see if another letter is waiting for him.
 
Upon arriving, he senses his disappointment from afar—there is no white paper in the slot. Had he imagined it all? But the letter in his breast pocket is still there, and he reads it once more. Should he reply to the mysterious woman? His wife, of course, must not find out; she would only misunderstand and be saddened by it. He is actually loath to keep anything from his wife, yet he simply needs some human connection; his work is monotonous and he spends a lot of time alone, so a little attention is only natural. His guilty conscience plagues him for a while, but then he decides to reply to the stranger.
 
“Dear No. 17, I am both surprised and honored that you have addressed such kind words to me. I am merely a mailman who walks the streets alone and performs his duties conscientiously. In doing so, I often miss having a conversation—someone to listen to me. Perhaps I have found such a person in you? It would be a great joy and a heartfelt need of mine to confide in you. Your ever-devoted postman".
 
 
Mr. Schwanenflügel’s heart is pounding in his throat as he folds the letter and slips it into mailbox No. 17. What has he done? What will come of this? Will she answer him? His hands are clammy with sweat as he returns home. He feels a strange sensation - much like in the old days, when he was young and in love for the first time. He feels like a schoolboy and has the urge to whirl his wife around in a spirited dance. She, too, appears in a different light to him today; she seems younger, her face softer, and she smiles at him. Both of them enjoy the new atmosphere between them, and the evening unfolds quite differently than usual.
 
With his heart pounding once again, Mr. Schwanenflügel sets off earlier than usual the next morning. His wife does not ask why; she, too, seems changed and is wearing a pretty dress, even though there is no special occasion for it. From a distance, the postman spots a white piece of paper gleaming - and sure enough, it is No. 17, holding a letter for him. His heart leaps for joy; she has written back to him after all!
 
With impatient fingers, she unfolds the letter and reads: “Dear unknown postman, The joy I felt yesterday upon receiving your trusting letter is so great that my thanks cannot possibly be heartfelt enough. You speak from my very soul; I, too, miss someone who listens to me, who shares their thoughts with me, and to whom I can confide… True, I have a faithful husband whom I love, but he cannot fulfill all my needs…”
 
Postman Schwanenflügel catches his breath; he reads on and on - the letter is very long and personal. The unknown woman tells him about her life as if they had known each other for a long time and were close friends. Yet he understands her well, for he feels much the same way. So he decides to reply to her right then and there:
 
“Dear No. 17, I, too, feel happy and honored to be the recipient of such a heartfelt letter from you. I assure you of my complete understanding and trust, and I can only agree with what you have expressed. I, too, harbor the wishes and longings you describe—desires that seek fulfillment. For instance, I would love to…”
 
Herr Schwanenflügel loses all sense of time and place, writing endlessly about everything that has weighed on his soul and troubled him for years—things he cannot confide in his wife because he believes she would not understand. It is truly remarkable how similar their life stories are. For a time, they correspond, exchanging letters and growing ever closer. He feels happy and lighthearted, and his wife, too, seems completely transformed at home—cheerful and at ease. He no longer feels guilty toward her, having grown so accustomed to their new situation. He barely notices any difference anymore between his wife at home and the understanding stranger at No. 17.
 
Things could have gone on pleasantly like this for many more years, had Mr. Schwanenflügel not one day read, in one of No. 17’s lovely letters, a wish to meet in person. In it, the unknown woman suggests meeting at the very same mailbox that had brought them both such happiness and contentment.
 

Suddenly, the postman’s old pangs of conscience return; overcome with guilt regarding his wife, he rejects the proposal, excusing himself by citing a lack of time on his route and the fact that he is not permitted to make extended stops. Sadly, he drops the letter into the box that day - perhaps the stranger will now want nothing more to do with him, seeing as he has refused to meet her?

He heads home in low spirits. Here, too, the atmosphere has reverted almost to what it was before he began his romantic correspondence with the unknown woman. His wife is quiet and withdraws completely into herself after dinner. He spends the night brooding, and by the next morning, he has reached a decision: he wants to meet "Number 17"—his entire happiness is at stake, and it is not yet too late.

 

With a heavy heart, he says goodbye and hurries as fast as he can to his route, soon reaching No. 17. Trembling with excitement, he stands before the mailbox that holds his entire future. After a brief hesitation, he drops in the letter he wrote the night before, feeling that his fate is sealed. In it, he proposes that they meet at No. 17 the next day at 12 o'clock sharp, and he finds it very difficult to wait until tomorrow.
 
When he arrives home, his wife is in unusually high spirits—something he cannot explain at all. She has even cooked his favorite meal, and for the first time in ages, he thinks he can detect the faint scent of perfume. Is she expecting a visitor he doesn't know about? Although he spends the evening in silence, thinking only of the next morning, his wife softly hums a tune he knows well. It is the song they danced to for the first time, back then. With a pounding heart, he hurries off to his route the next morning; he has even put on a new uniform shirt. Never before has he delivered the mail so quickly, yet today, time seems in no rush at all. The hours crawl by at a snail's pace. Finally, the moment arrives: it is twelve o'clock, and he is just a few steps away from mailbox number 17.
 
At last he is there, and his disappointment is indescribable: she isn't there! She took offense at his initial refusal; now it is all over. He cannot believe it; he had been so convinced she would come, so certain he already knew her well. Breathless, he stands in front of No. 17, unable to move.
 
Suddenly, he hears a faint rustling—the sound of a few snapping twigs—and finally, a woman emerges. She walks briskly past the flowering shrubs, wearing a pretty dress. He can already catch the scent of the perfume he loves so much and knows so well. The unknown woman number 17 is...
his own wife!
 
 
Stefanie Woschek