The Postmark of YesterdayArthur’s hands, gnarled and speckled with age, sorted through the final pile of dead letters—mail destined for the undeliverable, the forgotten. His retirement was a week away, and the Musty back room of the postal depot was his last conquest. It was then he saw it: a creamy envelope, its corners soft with time, postmarked September 16, 1982. The address, 47 Willow Creek Lane, was still legible. The return name was simply, “Leo.”A lesser man would have filed it for disposal. But Arthur was a romantic, a believer in the sanctity of the written word. That evening,