The letters came on Tuesdays, which was an artifact of the routing schedule the Branch Mail Service operated on. Jael had stopped opening them three years ago, after the nineteenth. He had not explained this to anyone, because there was no one to explain it to who would have understood what the letters were.
He had kept the unopened ones in a shoebox in the hall cupboard, stacked in order. Twelve now, or thirteen: he would have to count. They were slim envelopes, the same stock the Branch Mail Service always used, with his name in his own handwriting on the front and the official routing mark in the corner. He had not reread the opened ones either. Those were in a folder in the drawer under the bed, rubber-banded, in order.
He was not sure why he had stopped at nineteen. There was no particular thing in the nineteenth letter. There was a sentence he had needed to read twice. He could not remember the sentence now. He had folded the letter, put it back in the envelope, put the envelope in the folder. The next one had arrived on a Tuesday and he had put it in the shoebox instead. He had not experienced it as a decision at the time. It had been one anyway.
The latest had arrived that morning. He had brought it in with the rest of the mail, set the other envelopes on the counter, and taken this one to the hall. He opened the cupboard. He put it in the box with the others.
He closed the cupboard.
The box was still in there.