A spectral postman delivers lost letters, weaving regrets and blessings through fog, time, and memory.

Alex found the key on his pillow, heavy and old, its iron bow carved with curling designs. It didn’t fit the apartment’s locks...or any lock he knew. That night, a door appeared on his bedroom wall, tall and crooked, glowing faintly at the edges. Heart pounding, he slid the key into the lock. It turned smoothly, as though waiting for him. On the other side was not his hallway but a sunlit park...and a girl who smiled as if she had always known him. “You’re late,” she said. And the door closed behind him.

The desert had erased empires, yet one structure endured: a towering library, glowing faintly against the dunes. Inside, shelves stretched beyond sight, their books whispering like a thousand voices in prayer. When the wanderer opened one, he did not find a stranger’s tale but his own life, his grandmother’s song...her hands weaving his childhood into memory. “The Library remembers what the world forgets,” a voice murmured from the shadows. Every soul, every story, lives here. And now the wanderer faced a choice: guard his memories or surrender them to eternity.

In a crooked village lane, the clockmaker’s shop ticked with a rhythm all its own. Every clock on the shelves seemed to beat in unison, as though keeping time with something greater than hours. One rainy evening, a girl stepped inside, clutching a broken watch to her chest. Its hands were frozen, its glass cracked, and her voice shook as she laid it before him. “It stopped the moment my father died,” she whispered. The old man’s eyes softened. He turned the watch in his palm, listening. Then he said quietly, “I cannot give back what is gone…”