I have delivered mail in this building for twenty-two years. I know every apartment, every resident, every quirk of the heating system and the elevator and the mailbox cluster in the basement. I know that 4A is occupied by a retired accountant who plays chess on his balcony every morning. I know that 5C is a young couple who argue in French. I know that 3B is a widow who feeds the pigeons on the fire escape.

And I know that 4B is occupied by a young couple who used to laugh a lot and who now do not laugh at all.

I first noticed them in the spring. They had just moved in—Sarah, who was twenty-six and painted watercolors on the balcony, and Tom, who was twenty-eight and played guitar on the balcony and sometimes sang songs that made Sarah laugh. They were happy. I could tell by the way they moved through the hallway, by the way they held each other's hands, by the way Sarah's belly grew and her face glowed and she stopped painting and started reading books about babies.

I delivered their mail. Diapers. Formula. Books about pregnancy. A card from her mother congratulating them. A card from his mother congratulating them. A card from a friend who had just had a baby. A card from a friend who could not have babies. I delivered it all, and I said hello, and I said have a nice day, and I meant it.

Then the phone calls started. I heard them through the walls. Sarah's voice, thin and reedy, asking questions. The doctor's voice, calm and professional, giving answers. Sarah's voice again, quieter this time, saying, "I understand. Thank you."

I did not ask. I did not need to ask. I had been delivering mail for twenty-two years. I knew the sound of grief when I heard it.

After that, the balcony was empty. Sarah stopped painting. Tom stopped playing guitar. The balcony became a place where Sarah sat and stared at the skyline and did not move for hours. Sometimes she would get up and go to the window and look out at the street below, her hands pressed against the glass, her eyes empty, like windows that had been cleaned too many times.

I noticed that the mail piled up. Unopened envelopes. Bills. Catalogs. A card from a friend who had just had a baby. I wondered if she was still reading books about babies. I wondered if she was still laughing.

One Tuesday in October, I delivered a package to 4B. It was addressed to Sarah. I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked again. No answer. I waited. No answer.

I went back to the mailroom and sat down and thought about what to do. Then I went back to 4B and knocked one more time. This time, the door opened a crack. Sarah stood there, her face pale and thin, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow. She looked at me. She looked at the package.

"Can you just—leave it?" she said. Her voice was flat. Hollow. Like a room with no furniture.

"Of course," I said. I set the package on the floor. "Have a nice day, Mrs. Hartfield."

She closed the door. I heard the lock click.

Tom moved out in November. I saw him packing. I saw him carry boxes down the stairs. I saw him carry a guitar down the stairs. I saw him carry Sarah's painting easel down the stairs. I saw him carry a small box that I assumed contained baby things. I saw him carry Sarah down the stairs, her legs too weak to walk, her head resting on his shoulder, her eyes closed.

I did not say anything. I did not ask anything. I simply stood in the lobby and watched them go.

Sarah stayed. She stayed in 4B. She stayed on the balcony. She stayed at the window. She stayed in the chair by the window, staring at the street below, her hands folded in her lap, her face calm, her eyes empty.

I continued to deliver mail. I delivered it to 4A and 5C and 3B and every apartment in the building except 4B. I delivered it to 4B once a week, on Tuesdays, when I knew she would be home. I knocked on the door. No answer. I set the mail on the floor. I said, "Have a nice day, Mrs. Hartfield." I went back to the mailroom.

Sometimes, in the afternoons, I would stand at my window on the third floor and look across the courtyard at 4B. I would see Sarah sitting by the window, her hands folded in her lap, her face calm, her eyes empty. I would watch her for a while. Then I would go back to delivering mail.

One Tuesday in March, I delivered a package to 4B. I knocked on the door. No answer. I set the mail on the floor. I said, "Have a nice day, Mrs. Hartfield."

This time, Sarah opened the door. She looked at me. She looked at the package. She looked at me again.

"Thank you," she said. Her voice was flat. Hollow. Like a room with no furniture.

"You're welcome," I said. "Have a nice day, Mrs. Hartfield."

I went back to the mailroom. I sat down. I thought about what to do. Then I went back to delivering mail.

OTMES Objective Code Analysis: - TI: 70.3 - T2 Disillusionment Level - M1 (Tragedy): 7.0 - Moderate tragic intensity - M6 (Suspense): 5.0 - Urban life's hidden suspense - M4 (Poetic): 4.0 - Cold poetry - N1 (Active): 0.15 - Near-total passivity - N2 (Passive): 0.85 - Complete passive reception - K1 (Individual): 0.90 - Purely individual value - K2 (Collective): 0.10 - No social dimension - Theta: 135.0 degrees - Elegiac type - R (Redemption): 0.10 - Minimal redemption - I (Irreversibility): 0.90 - Near-total irreversibility - V (Destroyed Value): 0.80 - Life destroyed - C (Innocence): 1.00 - Absolutely innocent - S (Scope): 0.20 - Individual only - E_total: 12.1