A cold November night in 2019. I was temping at the county archives in Shady Hollow when a man walked in at 11:47 PM, carrying a letter he swore was unstamped and unsent. He wanted it delivered to a woman who died in 1972. I thought he was grief-stricken or confused. Then I read the postmark on the envelope. It was dated three days from now. The address on the front matched my own childhood home. And the handwriting — I recognized it. It was my mother's. But my mother died when I was nine. This is the story of what I found at Pigeon Creek Bridge, and why I still check my mailbox every night.

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