The salt-stained postcard

THE STORY BEHIND THE SOUND

By late August, the seaside town had begun to empty, but Ning still carried one undelivered postcard in her mailbag. The address named the old western tower, third floor, blue doorbell. She had tried twice. There was only a locked iron door and a pale square where the bell used to be. On the card, someone had written: I kept the table. Come and sit on Sunday.

Her supervisor said it could be returned, but Ning paused beside the tray. The postmark came from a harbour only ten kilometres away. During lunch, she asked a man repairing fishing nets about the address. He pointed toward a coffee kiosk beyond the seawall. A retired drawing teacher once lived in the tower, he said. Now he sketched there at high tide, weighting his paper with empty cups.

The teacher arrived carrying oranges. He smiled at the mention of the blue bell, then read the card in silence. He and an old friend had shared the studio and quarrelled during its move. Neither had spoken to the other all summer. Ning wondered whether to explain anything, but he carefully took the card and asked for the harbour bus timetable instead.

On Sunday, Ning delivered mail near the harbour and noticed two people debating the legs of an old wooden table outside a little shop. A bag of oranges stood between them. She let them continue. The gentle offbeat rhythm follows water around the breakwater stones, and each returning melodic phrase finds a slightly different landing, carrying a late invitation across a small but stubborn distance.