Package

Last night, in a dream, I took an Uber to deliver a letter to you.

Your current address. My former address. The same address.

It was the environment you live in; the environment I once lived in; an unfamiliar environment. The same doorbell, the same building number, but an unfamiliar relationship. The same entrance and exit.

Our relationship—no exit.

The concierge was on duty, but on the phone. He didn’t see me. There was no need for a visitor record. I entered the building reception area anyway. He was still on the phone as I searched for the blurred mailboxes. I appeared in front of him like a transparent person suddenly becoming visible.

He wasn’t surprised, nor alarmed, as if he had already recognized me—someone who once lived here.

I couldn’t find the blurred apartment number. I couldn’t even recall the building number. The concierge looked at me and pointed to a mailbox in front of me. He was still on the phone. We used gestures instead of Google Maps to search for the same coordinates.

Location locked: In a grid of sixteen compartments: Third row, third column.

He gestured for me to open the mailbox. I opened it and found that it was a file box used for public and internal building documents. I understood. He didn’t know who I was delivering the package to, but he remembered me—my soul. So he planned, after his break was over, to help me search for the resident listed on the package.

In my memory, a mailbox should easily fit an A4 package folded in half. Who knew this was a joke played by fate.

Memory was too heavy.

The space too small.

Too much emotion—unable to bear the load.

I turned toward the concierge on the phone and pointed to the recipient’s name and address. He stood up from the chair in the resting area and walked toward the reception desk. He was still on the phone, showing no hostility, yet he couldn’t remember who this person was.

Before entering the lobby, I looked up at that unit—the address where I once received mail. I saw that familiar silhouette and the living room light, which meant he had not yet gone to rest. I used gestures to tell the concierge that I could handle it myself, because his address was still here.

I walked around the lobby once more. Memory seemed to rearrange itself. The eight buildings behind the reception desk seemed to be playing musical chairs. I could no longer find where each building’s mailbox originally was. I still relied on memory, even though it might not be reliable.

But this package—I had to deliver it to the address where I once lived.

What was inside? I don’t know.

I once thought it might be a button—once pressed, our severed relationship would no longer exist, and everything could start over.

I also thought it might be a bomb, forcing you to find the safety latch within seven seconds of opening it and defuse the crisis.

Just like you taught me: “Your final seven seconds depend on whether your mind is calm enough.”

I thought even more that it might simply be a bottle of hand cream, because the weather has turned cold, and your hands—like my grandfather’s—might need it.

But in the end, these were only my guesses.

I am not the sender.

I am only the deliverer.

You are the receiver.

I don’t need to know the answer, just like you don’t want to know how I am doing.

I crossed from reality into the dream to return and see you.

This is my one-sided way of communicating with you.