The Midnight Post Office

The Midnight

In

Rafi, a youthful investigative writer, wasn't one to accept phantoms. He specialized in investigating secretive places for his YouTube narrative channel. When he listened to the stories around this surrendered post office, he knew he had to see it for himself.

Equipped with a camera, a voice recorder, and a spotlight, he arrived at the location at precisely 2:20. a.m. The roads were frightfully calm. The rusted entryway squeaked open with a thrust, discharging a wave of stale discuss and clean. Rafi turned on his camera and started recording.

“I'm standing interior Dhaka's notorious frequented post office. Let's see in the event that there's any truth to the legend,” he whispered to the camera.

Interior, it looked precisely as described—broken furniture, scattered envelopes, and a thick layer of tidy on everything. Within the corner sat a dusty, old transmit machine. Rafi chuckled. “Classic frequented setup,” he murmured.

All of a sudden, a cold breeze brushed the back of his neck. He turned strongly. No one. The discussion appears heavier presently.

Ding. Ding.

The transmit machine sprang to life.

Rafi solidified. The machine, unplugged and untouched, was printing something on its yellowed paper. He moved closer, capturing each minute on his camera. The manchine printed a arrangement of bizarre images and after that halted.

On the work area, another to the machine lay a weathered envelope. Inquisitive, Rafi picked it up. In blurred ink, it studied:

"Suddha, come back. I'm still holding up. – Sohel

Dated:

Admirable 14, 1947."

“1947?”

Rafi whispered. The year of the parcel.

All of a sudden, delicate strides resounded from behind. He turned around gradually.

A lady stood there.

She wore a white sari, her long dark hair streaming over her shoulders. Her confront was half-shrouded in fog. Her voice was scarcely a whisper:

“Have you brought Sohel's reply?”

Rafi took a step back, her heart beating. “W-who are you?”

She looked down at the letter, her eyes filled with tears. “He said he'd compose. I waited… all these a long time... but no answer came.”

“I... I found this here,” Rafi stammered, holding the envelope.

She tenderly touched it, her fingers scarcely obvious presently. “Then... it at long last arrived...”

As she took the letter, her body started to fade—first the hands, at that point the face—until she vanished into lean discussion.

Haziness inundated the room. The lights went out. Rafi's spotlight glinted and kicked the bucket. He came to his phone—no flag, no control.

All of a sudden, the dividers started whispering. Swoon voices, calling out:

“Suddha... Suddha... Will the letter reach her?”

Froze, Rafi ran. The entryway squeaked open on its claim, and he faltered exterior. The primary call to supplication reverberated within the separate. The morning had broken.

Back at his office, Rafi played back the camera film. But the screen was clear. No lady. No transmit. No voice.

But for one single frame—a still picture of the envelope with a modern message scribbled over it:

"Letter sent to Suddha's address. Goodbye – Sohel"

From that night on, things got stranger.

At precisely 3 anm., each night, a unused envelope slipped beneath Rafi's entryway. Same yellow paper. Same ink.

One night, it studied:

"Did you convey it?"

Another:

"She's still waiting…"

And another:

"Return the last letter… she never have to be read it."

Rafi never returned to the post office once more. But some of the time, inn> the dead of night, he listens a swoon tapping sound—like a transmit machine, calling from some place faraway absent.