The old man waited for the mail to arrive this day, same as every day. Not too many days left. The window was closing. It wasn't the mail in general he waited on. He waited, sentry-like on the front stoop, an old soldier prepared for the arrival of one very specific letter. It was almost ten years to the day in coming. No, he calculated as the afternoon waned, this was the tenth anniversary. Oh how apropos if it should arrive today of all days.
The woman who had replaced the man before her brought her little jeep to a gravel grinding halt, skidding up to the weathered tin mailbox like a ballplayer stealing third. The mail went in with a resounding 'thunk' and she and her jeep were off. The man she'd replaced used to wave. No matter. Just something to mutter about in the amble down the drive to the box.
Yes, a letter. Not a bill. Addressed by hand! His wrinkled fingers quivered as he drew it nearer to the thick of his glasses. Ten years to the day! To the day! He knew it would come! And here it was....
No. Not his letter. Wrong address.