I thought the box on the fence was a proper mailbox because it said “post” but the first outgoing letter I put inside reappeared on my windowsill the next day with a key on top that kept the wind from carrying it away and a solitary indigo-and-yellow pansy.
I knew the key would fit the box but I tested it anyway, just to be sure.
It still took me awhile to figure out how it worked, at least in concept.
Sometimes it’s a single blossom waiting inside the box. Other days the floral post brings full bouquets or potted orchids.
Often there are roses–white or red or yellow flame-tipped–in shades that always seem to suit my mood.
Once there were only petals, a rainbow of color that fluttered to the sidewalk like the misplaced feathers of countless tropical birds.
I haven’t figured out how they get there, though I’m not sure I want to know. The flowers don’t appear every day but they arrive quite frequently and I’ve never seen anyone go near the box.
When there’s something inside to find, the yellow painted flower glows a little brighter.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.