siriaeve:sheafrotherdon:Nicky’s mailbox. [No advertisments, only love letters.] For @sheafroth

siriaeve:sheafrotherdon:Nicky’s mailbox. [No advertisments, only love letters.] For @sheafrotherdon The previous owners had been the ones to put up the sign, of course. Every time Nicky unlocked his front door, he looked at it—non pubblicità, solo lettere d'amore—and reminded himself to take it down. It wasn’t that Nicky particularly wanted any advertising leaflets, but he couldn’t imagine himself getting any love letters in the near future, either. But there were many tasks that needed doing around a house that had stood empty for so long, and figuring out which tool he’d need to pry a whimsical little sign from the top of his letter box wasn’t near the top of Nicky’s renovation list.Which was why now, on the first proper spring morning, Nicky walked home from the bakery to find a man standing on his doorstep. He was broad-shouldered and curly-haired and had a small sheaf of envelopes clutched in his hands. “Can I help you?” Nicky asked. By now, he at least knew everyone who lived on this little street by sight, even if not by name. This man wasn’t one of them, although when he turned around he smiled at Nicky with all the warmth of an old friend. “Possibly,” the stranger said with a smile. His Italian had an accent to it that Nicky couldn’t quite identify—almost American, but not quite. His eyes were a deep and liquid brown. “Possibly not, I think I’m being very foolish. Someone told me about the old custom you’ve got here, and I thought hey, if I’m going to be living here now, might as well commit.” “Old custom?” Nicky was confused. The town had as many customs and quirks as any other in the region, but they were mostly associated with saint’s days and holidays, and not with showing up on a stranger’s doorstep on a Tuesday. “Yeah,” the stranger said, holding up the sheaf of envelopes. “The one where if you’re hoping to fall in love, you write letters to your soulmate and send them out into the world so they know you’re looking for them. I was on my way to the post office but then I saw your letter box and I thought it was a sign that…” He trailed off at the expression on Nicky’s face. “There’s no such custom, is there?” Nicky shook his head. The stranger said something in English, too fast for Nicky to follow, and then threw his head back and laughed. “This is Quynh’s revenge what happened last week. Well, I guess I deserved it.” He stepped down from Nicky’s doorstep. They were much of a height, Nicky realised vaguely. “I’m sorry I bothered you, I will take my embarrassed self and my nameless love letters home.” Ever after, Nicky was never able to say what it was that made him speak up then. Was it how lonely he had been ever since he’d moved here himself, or was it being close enough to see that there were fine lines around the stranger’s eyes, as if laughter came to him easily and often? In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Nicky held up his bag from the bakery and said, haltingly, “Focaccia with coffee is a local custom. If you would like to try it? With me.” What mattered was that the stranger—Joe, Nicky learned, over a slightly belated breakfast—had a smile that grew ever more beautiful the more that Nicky studied it. What mattered was that some months later, they would lie together in their bed while the late autumn rain pattered against the window pane—that Joe would finally open the letters and read them aloud to the one for whom they had been written. -- source link

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