Mailbox

One black mail box, twelve inches deep by five inches wide. Large enough to hold any letter or package to ever arrive. It hangs tilted to one side, the nails holding it to its post straining under the weight that years of loneliness put upon it. Slowly its mouth opens and shuts in the wind, creaking out its cries for company. The flag long rusted off so the mail truck simply drives by, kicking dust into its face again and again. Finally it gives up and releases its cling to the past, crashing to the rocks below with such a clatter, but no one heard a sound.