I was delivering letters to the moon

I walked a path that wasn’t on any map, just a faint trail of dust and old stamps. The moon was warm under my boots, like a baked biscuit left in the sun. I delivered a letter to a crater named Margaret — she’d been waiting since 1969. No one else ever came. I didn’t know what it said, but I could feel the weight of it in my hands. When I turned back, the post office was still there — same cracked door, same dog at 311. But the sky was different. Like December had finally arrived.