Carried by Otto, Chapter One

Chapter one, Otto Melingsly

“Anything for me today, Otto?” Ms. Elizabeth’s daughter called out, her voice full of that same bright tone I’d heard a thousand times before.

I gave her a small smile. “Sorry, kid. Just more bills for your mum.”

I barely made it to the next step before Mr. James poked his head out his front door. “Morning, Otto! I’m guessing it’s all bills again?”

“You got it,” I replied, trying to muster the usual smile, though it felt thin these days.

The neighbors mean well, and it’s nice that they care to say hello, but deep down, it feels like I’ve spent my life in an endless loop of “Good mornings” and “More bills, huh?” Day after day, year after year, as if all these tiny, ordinary moments are pieces of a life that somehow never added up to anything real. I’ve wasted nearly all my life on a string of small, forgettable tasks.

Maybe if I was delivering something important, it would mean more, and I wouldn’t feel this way. But the neighbors are right. It’s just more bills.

I’m just a mailman. A simple title for a simple life. My uniform, faded but pressed, clings to a frame built by decades of walking the same streets. My boots, worn smooth at the soles, have kissed every crack in the sidewalks of Birch Street, Oak Drive, and Maple Lane. My mailbag– a loyal companion, digs into my shoulder as it sways with the rhythm of my steps, weighed down by bills, junk mail, and the occasional letter that might carry the last whisper of something real.

Day after day, I march the same measured steps, my path as predictable as the rising sun. The neighborhood is a blur of sameness, faces blending into one another like watercolors left too long in the rain. I’ve been here so long that I could map every doorstep in my sleep, and yet, somehow, it feels like I don’t belong to any of it. Fifty years of delivering other people’s lives in neat little envelopes, and I wonder what’s in my own.

I’ve never been the daring type. Didn’t go off to war like Carl. Didn’t sell the dream like Uncle Heffry, grinning from behind a desk. Never found someone who made my heart stop long enough to imagine forever. It’s not that I didn’t try, there just never seemed to be enough of me to give. Now I’m 64, and the idea of settling down feels like trying to plant a tree in a desert. Too little, too late.

“Hey, Otto!” a voice jolted me out of my thoughts. I turned to see young Danny from the corner house jogging up, grinning like he was about to tell me the best joke I’d ever heard. He was probably seventeen or eighteen now, just at that age where every word sounds full of potential, where every sentence sounds like it’s leading somewhere grand. I envied him in a way I couldn’t admit.

“Morning, Danny,” I said, managing a smile. “What’s got you in such a hurry?”

He shrugged, that easy smile still plastered on his face. “Just wanted to catch you. Got a letter from the college today. Thought you might want to be the first to know.”

I raised an eyebrow, my heart giving an unexpected kick. “You got in?”

He nodded, looking down, like he was a bit embarrassed by how proud he felt. “Full ride,” he said, barely able to hold back the grin. “Gonna be studying physics.”

“That’s great, kid,” I said, forcing my voice to sound steady even as something unexplainable twisted in my gut. “You earned it.”

Danny nodded, then gave me a quick wave before turning to leave. “See you tomorrow, Otto!” he called over his shoulder, his words lingering in the air, echoing long after he disappeared around the corner.

I stood there, alone on the empty street, clutching my bag. Watching him go, I couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere along the way, I’d missed a turn, taken the wrong path. Fifty years of steps, of doing the right thing, of routines and responsibilities, and yet here I was watching someone else’s life take off while mine was slowly winding down. A strange feeling settled over me as I finally moved on, my steps slower, more deliberate. I didn’t know what it meant yet, but I was beginning to understand that if I didn’t do something soon, I’d end up exactly like the empty houses on my route, a forgotten shell left behind by time.

The wind bit at my cheeks as I turned onto Birch Street, the same street I’d walked a thousand times before, though tonight it felt colder somehow. My feet shuffled along the uneven pavement, falling into the old rhythm of my route. It was quiet out, the kind of quiet that always settled over the neighborhood this time of year. Folks were inside by now, their lights glowing warm behind curtains, the faint smell of dinner lingering in the air.

I glanced down at the stack of letters in my hand, noting the last address on the list. 512 Oak Drive. Again. The old Matthews place. I’d been delivering mail to that empty house for weeks now, ever since Mrs. Matthews passed and her kids stopped coming by. Most of the mail was junk: flyers, bills, nothing that mattered. Still, skipping it didn’t feel right. Like the house deserved its due, even if there wasn’t anyone in there to care. I made my way up the block, the rhythm of my steps becoming a familiar background music, my steps faltering as I came up the stairs. It was empty, just like it had been for nearly a month now. Once bustling with laughter and loud jazz music that would drift out of the windows like it owned the air. Now it was quiet, the windows dusty, the garden overrun with weeds. The whole place seemed to sag, like it was taking its last breaths.

I lingered there, just for a second, looking up at those dark windows, my hand tightening around the stack of envelopes. Every time I passed this house, a strange feeling crept up my spine, something between nostalgia and regret, like I’d missed something crucial along the way. Mrs. Matthews had been one of the last people on my route to talk about dreams instead of debts. I remembered her saying she was going to travel to Paris one day, that she’d been saving up for as long as she couldremember. But in the end, life had other plans. I shook my head, feeling the weight of it all press down, heavier than the bags I carried.

As I trudged up the driveway, I noticed the weeds had gotten worse. They were climbing over the path, curling around the edges of the porch steps like they’d claimed the place. The windows were dark, a thin layer of dust dulling the glass. It looked sad, really. Hard to believe it used to be the liveliest house on the block. Mrs. Matthews had thrown these grand dinner parties you could hear all the way down the street, the clinking glasses, bursts of laughter spilling out into the night. Now, there was nothing but silence.

I slid the mail into the box and hesitated. There was a letter this time, a real one, not the usual stack of bills or flyers. The handwriting was small and neat, like someone had taken their time. I wondered who still wrote to the Matthews family, knowing no one was there to read it. But I shook off the thought, gave the mailbox a firm close, and turned back toward the street.

Halfway down the block, I spotted Danny again, sitting on the grass with that notebook of his, scribbling away under the dim light of a porch lamp. I had seen him just a few minutes ago, so he must have been nervous, because he tends to move around when he’s stressed. He looked up when he saw me, a nervous smile appearing on his face. “Hey, Otto!” he called out. “How’s it going?”

“Same as always,” I replied, lifting a hand in a small wave.

“Busy night?”

“Not really,” I said, shifting the bag on my shoulder. “Just dropping off a few letters.”

He nodded and held up his notebook. “I’m working on my personal statement—for scholarships and stuff.”

“ Didn’t you get in already?” I asked.

Danny turned beet red “ Well yes, but I’m applying to internships, and I want to write a thank you letter to my college counselor.”

“Good for you,” I said, and I meant it. “What’s it about?”

He shrugged, face still flushed looking a little nervous. “How I want to be an astronaut. Probably sounds dumb, huh?”

“No,” I said, quicker than I’d expected. “Not dumb at all. Big dreams are good.”

A small smile appeared on his face.“Thanks, Otto. I’ll let you read it when I’m done!”I gave him a thumbs-up before moving on, the sound of his pencil scratching against the paper following me for a bit, mixing with the rustle of leaves in the breeze. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard someone talk about dreams like that. It stuck with me in a way I hadn’t expected.

When I rounded the corner to the next street, my eyes fell on another empty house, its FOR SALE sign barely hanging on by a nail. Something about it hit heavier tonight. Like it wasn’t just the houses that were empty, but the whole neighborhood. Even so, Danny’s words lingered in my mind, hanging there like an echo I couldn’t quite shake loose. I couldn’t stop thinking about Danny’s dream to be an astronaut.

His words hung in the air like smoke, weightless yet impossible to ignore.It was like hearing a song you used to know, faint and distant, just out of reach. Dreams. Did I ever have one? The thought was as foreign to me now as the stars Danny scribbled about in his notebook. I couldn’t even remember what it felt like to want something other than my shift ending sooner. I tightened my scarf, though it did little against the wind. The streetlights hummed faintly above me, their halos casting long shadows on the pavement, and the houses seemed to shrink in the dim glow, as if they were huddling against the chill too.Birch Street always felt colder, like it was cursed with its own climate of gloom. Maybe it was all the sad empty houses. Maybe it was just me.“Keep moving, old man,” I muttered to myself, stamping my feet like it’d scare the cold away. It didn’t. Instead, the wind howled back, swirling leaves around my boots like some low-budget special effect. It wasn’t just cold—it was disrespectful.

I adjusted the strap of my bag, shifting the weight on my shoulder, and tried to pick up the pace. The houses loomed on either side of me, their windows dark and lifeless. Even the FOR SALE signs looked tired, leaning sideways or dangling off their posts. One of them squeaked as it swung in the wind, and I nearly tripped over a rogue garden gnome that had toppled into the sidewalk. Its chipped smile stared up at me like it knew something I didn’t.

“Glad someone’s having fun,” I grumbled, nudging it back into the weeds.

When I bent down to pick up a few stray letters I’d dropped, something odd caught my eye. One envelope stood out, its edges worn and smudged like it had been crammed in a pocket for days. The name Charles Matthews was scrawled across it in a shaky hand. My breath hitched.

Charles Matthews. I hadn’t thought about him in years. A gap-toothed troublemaker with a knack for sneaking cookies off Mrs. Fischer’s cooling rack and climbing onto rooftops “just to see what’s up there.” The last time I’d seen him we were 17 years old, I had just started my career as a mailman, and he was hollering something about leaving this dead-end town and making it big. He’d vanished not long after, leaving his family and everyone else behind.

I turned the letter over. No return address, just a faint bulge from whatever was inside. It felt important, heavier than the usual junk I carried around. A part of me wanted to rip it open right there, but that would’ve been a terrible look for a mailman—snooping through someone else’s life on the corner of Birch Street. So I shoved it back in my bag and kept walking, though it tugged at my mind with every step.Up ahead, a light flickered on a porch, and I spotted young Danny again. He was hunched over his notebook, his pencil scratching away like his life depended on it. He looked up when he saw me and grinned, his face lit by the glow of his lamp.

“Hey, Otto! Nice to see you again!” he called, waving like we were best pals. “What’s in there?”

“Bills, mostly,” I replied, holding up my bag. “And one mysterious letter.”

His eyebrows shot up. “ You crack it open yet? Maybe it’s a love letter. Or a secret code.”

“Mailmen don’t crack letters, kid,” I said, though I couldn’t help smiling. “That’s how you get fired. Or arrested. Or both.”

Danny laughed and waved his notebook in the air. “Well, if you find a code, I’ll crack it for you. I’m a genius, remember?”

“Sure kid,” I said.“What’s the notebook for this time? Still planning your big trip to Mars?”

“ I’m working on my personal statement,” he said, puffing out his chest. “Gotta tell them why I’m the perfect guy for a full ride.”

“What’d you put so far?” I asked, more curious than I’d admit.

He hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh… something about wanting to explore the unknown. Sounds cool, right?”

“Sounds like you’re writing a movie trailer.”

He laughed, but there was a flicker of nervousness in his eyes. “It’s not easy, you know. Trying to sound like a genius on paper.”

“You’ll figure it out,” I said, waving him off. “Just tell ‘em you’re the guy who never surrenders. People eat that up.”

He grinned, wide and hopeful, like he hadn’t figured out yet that the world didn’t always cheer for the good guys. “Thanks, Otto. I’ll let you read it when it’s done.”

“Can’t wait,” I said, though I was already halfway down the block.

By the time I reached the next house, the cold had sunk into my bones. My breath puffed out in little clouds as I slid the mail into the slot. I glanced up at the windows, dark and still, and couldn’t help wondering how many lives had passed through those walls. How many dreams had started there and fizzled out like a dying bulb.

Up ahead, a light flickered on a porch, and I spotted young Danny again. He was hunched over his notebook, his pencil scratching away like his life depended on it. He looked up when he saw me and grinned, his face lit by the glow of his lamp.