Mr. Verd had always believed that fallen leaves were symbols of change.
Where you found one shriveled skeleton, it could be ascertained that a youthful bud had emerged from the depths of a timeless slumber.
When Autumn came, whistling melodies of foreshadowed snow, the man wished he could walk among boulevards of sunset showers, surrounded by the remnants of little blossoms that swayed in the heavy air.
Yet there were no such trees at sea. No gardens filled with dozing greens, no thinning branches clutched by flowers bidding their final farewells. No, the man spent his Autumns staring at the boundless performances of the ocean, wishing that, perhaps with a little yellow paint, he could dye the water a lovely green.
Throughout the seasons Mr. Verd sailed the oceans, carrying parcels of love and grief to their bounded destinations. Stuffed cloths scented with lavender for daughters, dried stalks of wheat and dandelions for lovers– no matter what it was, the man made sure to straighten the hems of his coat and deliver them with the utmost care.
These gifts, these messages, they were little pieces of lives that he would never find out the endings to. And for a long while, it took every inch of his self control to refrain from peeking within tightly wrapped wax papers. What were the contents? Another letter, notifying a son of a deceased father? Another diamond, requesting the hand of a fair lady? If he could not know the endings, could he at least not collect snippets of memories blowing in the wind, hoping to piece them into whole stories that he could get drunk on during the coldest hours of the icy ocean nights?
But those were impulses of the past. Mr. Verd no longer picked at the sealings with nervous fingers as he had done in his youth. Instead, he sat with the parcels sorted neatly into a leather duffel bag, staring at the bobbing land as the wind began to taste of nectar and dust.
The ship arrived several hours early at the port of a city trapped in the eternal clutches of Summer, and Mr. Verd produced a handkerchief out of his pocket to dab at the specks of sweat that had begun to gather at his brow.
The shouts of weary sailors were drowned by the clankings of chains and lowered planks, and the weight of the duffel bag settled comfortably on the shoulder of the man as he made his way down to the waiting carriage.
“William!” A greeting from the familiar driver. Flashes of gray hair and missing teeth. “Has the journey fared you well?”
Mr. Verd nodded. “Better than the last.” The bag fell into place beside him on the leather seats as he climbed in, the rumble of the impatient ship moaning into the distance behind. The sanded roads soon turned to gravel, and he marveled at how much the country had changed since his previous visit months ago. He despised the heat– it was too harsh, too bold. Where he found solace in the gentle manner of Fall weathers, Mr. Verd only found bitterness in the scorching burns of Summer’s poisonous kisses.
“You may wish to take off your coat,” the driver began, reaching beneath the seat to retrieve a flask of water.
The liquid ran warm in his mouth, doing little to quench his thirst. Mr. Verd screwed the cap back on, wiping his lips with the back of his hand before adjusting his coat.
“I do not.”
The driver glanced at him before letting loose a breathy chuckle. Of all the times they had met before, Mr. Verd had always kept his coat on. It was a heavy thing, made of layered cloth that had been stained with the salty sprays of travel. He did not like to take it off, it appeared, though perspiration was dripping from his face in desperate pleas of cooler air.
“Will we be stopping by the Smiths’ first?” The flask was dropped on the seat, clanking with the sway of the wheels.
Mr. Verd pondered this for a moment. Though one would expect to go through the addresses scrawled upon the parcels, he simply took a second to think, and nodded curtly. “We must drop by Thomas Bendley’s thereafter, then directly pay a visit to Charles’ daughter. I suppose it would be most sensible to travel afterwards to the central—”
“What of Hannah?”
The man’s grip on the duffel bag tightened, though the driver did not notice. “Miss Burton has nothing addressed to her.” He relaxed his hand, and waved some dust away, “We may head to the station then, as I was saying, for the rest are all bound for the central office.”
“You mean to tell me that Caspar has sent not a single parcel for Hannah?” The driver stole a glance at Mr. Verd. “You do know she has been waiting. Twisting her hands like a child though she scoffs that there is nothing to wait for.”
“I did not know.” Mr. Verd shifted in his seat as the carriage rolled along. “I will pay her a visit in my own time.”
The Smiths did not live far from the port. A small domed house sat between two taller spirals of windows, and as the wheels slowed to a stop, the driver grabbed the rope that dangled by his head, ringing a shrill bell that clanged their arrival.
Several seconds passed before the gates swung open, and a child ran out wearing nothing but muddied trousers. His hair was tousled, his eyes were wide like the light of the moons that kept Mr. Verd awake on terrible nights.
“Willy!” His hoarse voice was swallowed by the dust that rose from the path, but Mr. Verd smiled and gathered his duffel bag onto his shoulder, straightening the buttons of his coat. The boy danced with feet that had lost their shoes, and a woman appeared behind with a pleasant beam upon her cheeks.
“Mr. Verd, how nice it is to see you again.” She coughed slightly, wiping her hands on the apron hanging from her neck, “Tom has been counting the nights and hours until your arrival. Just about drove me crazy thinking you might never come.”
Mr. Verd chuckled, patting the child on the head.
“What have you got?” The boy tugged at his coat, squinting his eyes into the glare of the sun.
Three parcels for the Smiths. The boy took his with hands that were stained with dirt, pulling at the wax until the paper crumpled on the floor and became powdered with sand. A tiny statue of Apollo rested on his thin fingers, and he made a sound that Mr. Verd assumed to be of delight.
“And,” he held out the remaining two parcels to the mother. She accepted them gingerly, holding them behind her back as she rummaged her dress pockets for coins. They fell in a neat pile into Mr. Verd’s palm, and he let them roll into the duffel bag. The woman was seized by coughs, and he stared at the boy who had run off into the garden to play with the figurine. His slight frame was racked by shivers a moment later as well.
“He will be well.” The woman interrupted his thoughts as she gestured to the parcels in her hand. “These will be for him. Medicine is hard to come by, Mr. Verd, but we try.” Kind lines wrinkled her face when she patted his arm. A series of coughs struck her heavily.
“I was not thinking that. There is no doubt of his… Wellbeing.” But he wondered if she realized the look in her own eyes. Mr. Smith had disappeared years ago, an addict of gambles and dangerous money. When the two were left, the mother seemed to only hear the rasped gasp of her son’s lungs. She was deaf to the blood stains on her lip.
“How do you deal with colds on the ship, Mr. Verd?”
“It is a constant struggle, my lady. Sailors that fall ill to fevers insist that wine may cure the burning lungs, but in my eyes, it is merely nonsense.”
The woman laughed at this, bidding the man goodbye as he climbed back into the carriage with the duffel bag clutched tightly by his side.
The domed house disappeared into the dust, echoing the make-believe yells of a little boy.
Thomas Bendley was absent when Mr. Verd arrived at the crawling estate. The feathered trees were flooded with blossoms that would flower all year, but they only called forth terrible sneezes that urged Mr. Verd to drop off the two heavy parcels addressed to Lord Bendley in a hurried haste.
Not long after, the daughter of Charles clapped with delight when she took in the satin dress her father had sent from across the shore. She pressed the fabric to her delicate shoulders, spinning in the moist grass as tinkling laughs escaped her gentle soul.
“He should not have!” She let the dress hang limp on her arm as she smiled at Mr. Verd, unable to conceal the rosy blush that had spread across her pale cheeks. “But you know him, do you not, Mr. Verd? A man of many words and unnecessary gifts, though I am surely not complaining.”
He nodded courteously at the young lady, and she invited both him and the driver into the house for cold cups of tea. The ring on her finger flashed in Mr. Verd’s view, and he commented, with a look of surprise, that it had been absent on his previous visit.
“Engaged, Mr. Verd. With Thomas Bendley, can you believe it? Father was absolutely thrilled with the news, though it is odd that he did not mention it to you upon your meeting. Did you stop by Thomas’ house, by any chance?” She held out her hand and let him admire the stone set into the intricately wrought metal.
Mr. Verd shook his head, “It is quite the news. I am happy for you, though he was not at the estate. It was no wonder that your father was in such high spirits when he handed me your parcel.”
The girl giggled, fanning at her face with a piece of cloth. “Send papa my gratitude, will you, Mr. Verd? I miss him terribly.”
It was well close to dusk when Mr. Verd set out into the street again, the carriage familiarly rumbling beneath his dusted pants. The driver agreed to let Mr. Verd off near Miss Burton’s, kindly offering to deliver the rest of the packages since the central office was on his way out of the city. When the carriage drove off with Mr. Verd standing under the flickering lamps, the sun was already halfway gone. What had initially been invitations for tea turned into supper, though they had not expected Lord Bendley himself to stop by.
Miss Burton, or Hannah, as the driver had addressed her, lived in a modest house with a spanning porch. The paint had chipped off from the wooden posts long ago, but a rocking chair still perched obediently in the dying light of the sunset.
An old woman sat with her eyes closed upon that rocking chair, her hands folded over a knitted quilt. Mr. Verd wondered if she was not hot under the heavy blanket. His attention turned to the young lady who had appeared in the doorway, nervously holding onto the frame as she waved to him.
She was quite beautiful, with locks of brown hair that cascaded down her shoulders and back. Half of it had been pinned up, and a timid smile touched her tense mouth.
“Mr. Verd.” Her voice was a newborn seed that had budded from the remnants of a fallen beauty. “I thought you would never come. Do you have a parcel? From Caspar?”
He approached the porch with careful steps, minding the roses that had fallen along the bricked path. “Good Evening, Miss Burton.” The old woman had not moved from her rocking chair, but the girl pushed off of the door frame and put a hand on the elderly lady’s shoulder.
“The parcel?” The young woman asked softly. “Caspar must have sent something.” She stared at the duffel bag at his side, but he was a statue.
“Caspar is not…” He cleared his throat. “I did not receive anything from him, Miss Burton. No parcel, at least.”
Anguish crossed the young woman’s features, contorting her brows and pinching her forehead. “Well whyever not? How could he have not sent a single thing? Did you not visit him, Mr. Verd? Did he not say anything? Does he—”
“Bella. Hush, child.” The old woman opened her eyes, staring up at Mr. Verd with irises that reminded him of skeletons and broken skies.
“Good Evening, Miss Burton.” Mr. Verd touched the old woman’s hand gently, and she grasped his fist with a strength that he would never grow accustomed to. “How have you been, Hannah?”
Miss Burton’s eyes crinkled, and she shook his hand heartily. “Good to see you, William. It is good to see you.” She stared past him at the clouds that had begun to drink the feasts of sunset, murmuring something beneath her breath.
“Do you mind saying that again, Hannah?”
She turned back to Mr. Verd and let go of his fingers, twisting her own hands as if trying to ward off the cold. “It is still snowing where Caspar is, is it not?”
He hesitated. “Yes, it is always snowing where Caspar is.”
A grunt came from her chest. “Do you suppose he ever used the parasol I sent?”
Mr. Verd laughed, and Hannah brushed a strand of white hair out of her wrinkled eyes. He shrugged. “Perhaps he used it during hailstorms.”
Chuckles shook her shoulders. “It better have been one hell of a storm.” And silence. “You say he has sent nothing, eh?”
Mr. Verd’s grip on his duffel bag tightened once more, and his knuckles turned white. “No, Hannah. No parcel. But he…” he trailed off. When the old woman remained quiet, Mr. Verd shook his head. “He forgot to prepare something, Hannah. Said he was a day late and I was already scheduled to sail. He did not want to delay my travels, you see.”
“A fool, Caspar. The cold must have gotten to his brain before it took his knees.” Miss Burton waved her gnarled hands, pushing the quilt off of her knees. “Would you like to stay for supper, Mr. Verd?”
He placed a flat hand on his stomach, feeling the remnants of dinner that had not yet been digested. “I must decline, Miss Burton, though I thank you for your kind offer.”
She grumbled something beneath her breath again, and patted Mr. Verd affectionately on the shoulder. “It is late, Bella. We must let Mr. Verd get his rest before his departure tomorrow. See him out, will you?”
“Take care, Hannah.” Mr. Verd gently took the quilt and folded it as the old woman made her way into the darkened house. The lights flickered on somewhere upstairs.
The younger Miss Burton turned to Mr. Verd, glistening eyes boring into the duffel bag that he so cautiously guarded. “There is a parcel, is there not?” Her voice was quiet. “She has been more distressed than you can imagine, William. It is all she talks about, though she does not let you see that.” She paused.
And even more softly, “Caspar is not the kind of man to forget.”
A parcel for a Miss Hannah Burton. There was indeed such a parcel within Mr. Verd’s leather duffel bag. It was wrapped carefully, stamped by a hand that bore as many traces of years as Hannah’s wrinkled features. A hand that had once worn a ring, but had once loved Miss Burton before and after the metal had encased the finger. A hand that belonged to a man that lived in a land of Winter, exchanging parcels with a woman he had grown old with over the years.
What was within the parcel? Should Mr. Verd not know? But it has already been said that Mr. Verd no longer wondered about memories that were not his to keep. Not his to cherish. And when the younger Miss Burton, the youthful bud that had emerged from the death of the skeletal leaves of Autumn, collapsed on Mr. Verd’s shoulder in a sobbing heap, he could no longer bear the weight of that single parcel within his bag.
Bella took the tear stained parcel with trembling fingers as Mr. Verd left the porch, kicking dust into the rays of sun that had already been reduced to a wisp.
Perhaps he should have stayed on the ocean. There would be no Autumn. No Summer. No Winter. No Spring. There would be no last parcels, wrapped with goodbye and untold loves that would never unfold a happy ending.
But Mr. Verd had always believed that fallen leaves were symbols of change. Of new beginnings.
He sometimes was not sure if he could continue believing the same thing. Yet if he did not, who would deliver the parcels?
Mr. Verd had long stopped wondering at the contents of those preciously wrapped hearts, wishing that he could piece them together in a tapestry that would keep his scattered soul together without his heavy coat.
Those memories were not his to keep. Not his to cherish.
Just his to deliver.