1 The two strangers

The month of April is not very hot and not very cold in Alsace-France. It was just mild weather, which anyone could consider normal—you know, like balanced or equal weather.

Very low in Alsace lies a city, Mulhouse. A lively city with old-modern thatched roofed houses and crossed wooden windows, especially covered with white sheets—mostly by older houses, unlike the new ones.

Along the well-designed cobblestones, the tires of heavy-loaded lorries roll by, squeaking and jerking all of their interior parts, which shows that they're already an old truck. The cheerful shouts of little children on bikes could be heard clearly as they clamoured about who would beat who in the upcoming race, which could start at any indefinite time on that minute, taunting and praising on who had the best bike of all time.

Quite well, they can absolutely get rough when the arguments between them rise, making the older women scowl at them. "Bad chaps, go home to your parents and work". They always have a problem with the kids always playing away their time. Coming down along the road is a Roman Catholic church—a very busy place. Sometimes people wonder if there's any other service held at the church apart from Sundays, maybe in the secret sanctuary. Because all the time you have to hear the Gregorian chants. monophonic chants. Unison chants or the liturgical music—but right now it's just the Gregorian chants. It always seems like they take turns coming up, which flows all the way down to a lonely rough road—so lonely that it's only the click-cluck of donkeys' shoes and chirps of birds that are always heard. A few metres away from the initial part of the road, into the road, is a standing old wooden sign board which has a pointy end at its other width, with the written word 'POST OFFICE'. It was actually pointing somewhere—an old small building to be precise.

The old building seems to be begging for repair. Its body structure had already bent to one side. Seeing it from afar, you may think that it's about to fall. Well, it's about to fall, but not about to fall because a long, strong log was used to wedge it from the other side, which made it look stable.

Inside the old structure, a loud whirring music was pumping out of a radio which was placed on the counter, an irking and irritating sound. Beside it was a short table fan blowing a flapping French flag, which was tied to it up and down.

On the cracked wooden wall was a clock, a large medium-sized clock whose calibration could be seen from a stone's throw away.

'Tirrck-torrck, Tirrck-torrck.'

The seconds hand of the clock was making a screeching noise as it went. It was like its body was making contact with the flat surface of the clock. On the counter was an elderly man dressed in a worn-out post officer uniform, his boots resting on a pile of boxes, most likely containing letters. His scraggly black hair, almost mixed with his unshaven beard, was covered with a cap going down to his face. And due to the fact that his nose was also covered, it made his snores louder and rougher, like an old factory chimney.

Sleeping at work is not what anyone would do normally, but in this state, Mr. Mugler could only harmonize with the loneliness that cobwebbed around him. And the only way to get along with it is to sleep at his workplace.

Because of the rapid growth of modernization, not many people use the mail these days. Mr. Mugler could differentiate between the good old days when men and women, celebrities, children, and so many others queued at his doorpost to post their Christmas or Thanksgiving Day letters—except he'd only attend to celebrities more quickly because they're always in a hurry—all of which have begun to dwindle as a result of electronic mail, but that doesn't mean that people don't use post mail. Well, they do.

But this day was very different for Mugler. It wasn't like all the other normal days when he came to work, sleep, and enjoy the music from his radio. It was different and unexpected, and also strange—strange because he had met two weirdos at his post office that day.

Though irritated with the screeching noise of the wall clock, Mr. Mugler tried to pay less attention to it. He always has this feeling of throwing that clock out of the window just like a kid about to throw a base ball and having it caught, then leaving him to shout "FUCK!"

But how could he tell time if he does that? Well, at least it keeps him company until something more deafening interrupts the screeching clock.

*BANG*

*BANG*

*BANG*

"What the hell?" he asked. Mr. Mugler suddenly got annoyed, with his wrinkled face, which was fuming against the person behind the door...

*BANG*

*BANG*

*BAN...

"Come on in already, w-". The door swung open in a flash, not waiting for Mugler to finish the words.

"Howdy, folk?" A medium-sized, chubby-looking man, with a white grey beard on a neat suit, both the ups and downs, greeted. On his hands were shiny golden cufflinks and a pair of well-polished black skin shoes on his plump feet. Mr. Mugler took his time accessing this strange man who had just entered his office, forgetting that he had said something to him.

The chubby-looking man somewhat felt disrespected. He rubbed his pointy nose many times and tapped his legs on the floor repeatedly, and was busy waiting for the lost mailman to respond to him, but it seemed like that wasn't coming, so he decided to blow the gasket—the rude side of him.

BANG! He slammed the table with his chubby hand, drawing the attention of the mail man back to him.

"Sorry sir, you... What were you saying?" Mugler stuttered. Bringing him back from his fantasy world was quite obvious that he was initially lost.

"You annoying people..." The chubby man gritted loudly. He couldn't control his impatience even though he tried hard enough to be nice the first time. "Anyways, folk, I have something for you to do for me." He dropped the small brown box, which he had been holding since he entered the post office, onto the table.

'He wants to post a letter'. Mr. Mugler, seeing this, was a bit surprised. The man before him looks like he attended or wants to attend a grand party where champagne is being served. Why didn't he make use of electronic mail?

"Are you folks in this multiverse reality always this stupid?" The chubby man snapped his thumb. His voice already showed he was provoked with the mail man behind the counter. "Can you listen to me?"

"Huh?" Mr. Mugler, realizing what he asked earlier, said, "Yes sir, I am listening." He hurled the little brown box immediately.

The chubby man slapped his hands at that point. Mr. Mugler had to leave the box in that instant, wondering why the chubby man would hit his hands.

"You don't rush things without knowing what they are!" The chubby man told him. It sounded like a caution, though he thought of some assault from a stranger.

"Why does he sound like that?" Mr. Mugler wondered as he recoiled quickly. Is there something in the box that I shouldn't touch? Is it dangerous? The chubby man slapped his face with his closed eyes, looking disappointed. Removing it, he exhaled and looked at the mail man. This time it wasn't strict or rude. Though he did want to say a few words, he didn't have much time as he looked at his wrist watch.

"Here." He pushed the box back to Mr. Mugler. "Can you mail these for me—these letters?" He indicated the letters informing Mr. Mugler of what was in the box.

Mr. Mugler took a while before drawing the box close to himself, watching the man carefully. Maybe that was another slap coming up, so he had to be careful. He doesn't know if it was a game, but who the hell plays these kinds of games except kids?

He peered at the box closely since the slap didn't come. "That is what I do, sir.... mailing letters is what I do." He finally realized what was in the box—it was letters, yellow neatly piled letters with the same initials; M.S.

They were going all the way down to America. Japanese. Australia. A strange question was posed to him by the chubby man.

"Where can I find a cemetery?"

Mr. Mugler was a bit shocked. A cemetery? What is this man looking for in a cemetery? Does he want to bury someone? spooky.

"Do you know a cemetery? Where dead chaps are buried" The chubby man continued, but Mr. Mugler was still starring at him, transfixed.

The chubby man regretted asking that question, "Never mind, I'll use the one along the road." Mr. Mugler's shocks were added. Was this man trying to make it hard for him to breathe with all those scary words? because he was surely succeeding with that.

The chubby man turned towards the door; he was fed up with the dumb mail man behind the counter. As he made his way to leave, he looked at Mr. Mugler's shirt. A little metal scribbled with his name was hung on the pocket side. "Bye Mr. Mugler, be sure to mail those letters, thanks."

Immediately, he swung the door open. "Foolish multiverse reality". Those were the last words he said before letting the door shut.

"Multiverse reality?"

Mr. Mugler resounded the word back into his head. That should be the second time the strange man said that word. In all those minutes, Mr. Mugler went dumb, which really surprised him. He was finally able to talk.

"Multiverse reality? and a cemetery?" He shook his head abruptly, trying to wring out the thoughts of the weird man from his head. He drew back and checked the cupboards at the counter. He opened the cupboard with the word "PRE-MAIL" written on it and placed the little brown box inside it.

After some minutes, he did that and was able to get back to his relaxing mood that afternoon. Another knock came at the door.