“Delivery to the End of the World”

Delivery to the End of the World

By[Ali Rehman]

The rain had been falling for hours when the call came in.

Eli Turner wiped condensation from his delivery van’s windshield and squinted at the dimly glowing dashboard screen. The request was flagged as “Priority – Level Omega.” He had never seen that before.

The client ID was blank. The pickup location was an old post depot on the edge of the city. The destination field read only two words:

“End of the World.”

He laughed, assuming it was some hacker’s idea of a joke. But then the system beeped again — Delivery Confirmed. GPS Locked. The route loaded automatically, a straight red line stretching into a patch of gray where the map ended.

“Guess I’m going off the grid tonight,” he muttered, turning the key.

The depot was abandoned — dust-covered counters, cobwebs in the corners, the hum of one flickering fluorescent light. But on the table near the back sat a single package: small, square, wrapped in black paper, tied with silver string.

A tag hung from it, written in delicate cursive:

For Delivery. Handle With Memory.

Eli frowned. “Handle with memory?” he read aloud. “What does that even mean?”

The box felt heavier than it looked. Warm, somehow — as if it had been sitting in sunlight, though the place was freezing.

He shrugged and scanned it. The system accepted the barcode instantly. The screen blinked:

Route Confirmed — ETA: 3 hours, 42 minutes. Destination: End of the World.

And then, underneath, another line appeared:

DO NOT OPEN. UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE.

The road took him farther than he’d ever been. Streetlights thinned. Houses gave way to empty fields and fog-drenched hills. The radio died first, then his phone signal. By the time the clock struck midnight, he was driving through a world of pure silence.

Every few miles, his GPS flickered — the digital voice stuttering:

“Turn… left… recalculating… continue to… the End of the World.”

He almost turned back more than once. But something about the package drew him on. Maybe it was the curiosity. Maybe the promise of a fat paycheck.

Or maybe — though he wouldn’t admit it — it was the strange comfort he felt knowing there was still something left to deliver.

Two hours in, the road disappeared. The van’s tires crunched over gravel and then dirt. The fog grew thicker until the headlights only lit a wall of white.

Then, through the haze, Eli saw a wooden sign leaning at an angle by the road. The words were barely legible under layers of moss:

“Welcome to Nowhere.”

He stopped.

The GPS screen glitched, colors flickering.

When it cleared, a new message appeared:

1 Mile Remaining. Proceed on foot.

Eli grabbed the package, a flashlight, and his jacket, and stepped into the cold.

The air smelled like salt and rain. He followed the path until the fog broke — and then stopped dead in his tracks.

Before him stretched an endless sea of stars.

It wasn’t water. It wasn’t sky. It was both — a horizon that seemed to fold in on itself, like the edge of reality had been peeled open.

The ground beneath his feet shimmered like glass.

And in the middle of it all stood a small wooden house, warm light glowing through the cracks in its shutters.

A mailbox outside read simply:

“The End.”

Eli’s pulse hammered in his throat. He climbed the porch steps and knocked once. The door opened before his hand even dropped.

An old woman stood there, smiling gently.

“I’ve been waiting,” she said.

Eli blinked. “I… I have a delivery. But this place— it’s not on any map.”

“Of course it isn’t,” she said. “Maps only show what people remember.”

He held out the package. “This is for you, I think.”

She nodded, eyes glinting. “Would you like to come in while I open it?”

Every instinct told him to say no. But he stepped inside.

The house was cozy — books stacked in every corner, a kettle steaming on the stove, the air filled with the faint scent of cinnamon and old wood. He set the package on the table.

“Do you know what’s in it?” he asked.

The woman smiled. “You do.”

Eli frowned. “Me?”

“Go on,” she said softly. “Try to remember.”

He hesitated, then reached for the box. It pulsed faintly under his fingertips — warm, alive. And in that moment, something shifted.

A flood of images hit him: a car accident, twisted metal, flashing lights, a woman’s voice screaming his name. His wife. Anna. The memory he had buried so deep it felt like a dream.

He staggered back. “I— I don’t understand.”

The woman placed her hand over the box. “This is what you lost on your way here.”

The string untied itself. The paper unfolded. Inside was a single photograph — faded, edges burned. It showed Eli and Anna on a sunny afternoon, holding each other and laughing.

He felt his knees give out. “I thought… she was gone forever.”

“She was,” the woman said. “But love leaves traces — things that time can’t deliver or erase. You carried this one back.”

Tears blurred his vision. “So this… this is the End of the World?”

“For you,” she said. “For everyone, once.”

He looked toward the window. Outside, the horizon shimmered — endless, bright, and silent. “What happens now?”

The woman smiled kindly. “You’ve made your final delivery. It’s time to rest.”

Her words sank into him like warmth. The room filled with light — soft and golden, like a sunrise that had been waiting just for him.

And for the first time in years, Eli didn’t feel the need to go anywhere else.

The next morning, a rescue team found his van parked at the edge of the fog. Engine off. Driver’s seat empty.

Inside, they found a single sealed envelope on the dashboard addressed to “Return to Sender.”

When they opened it, it was blank—except for three words written in delicate cursive:

“Delivered. With Memory.”