The Post Round – Part 2: Last Letter
Mature & Silver·EN·2 min read·Published 2026-11-07, updated 2026-11-07·Part 2 of 2
Idwal's last round was in June.
The whole village came out to see him. They lined the lanes with flowers, with cakes, with tins of biscuits. Farmers shook his hand. Children ran alongside the van, shouting. An old woman kissed his cheek and wept. By afternoon, his bag was full of presents and his face was pink.
He saved Gwen's cottage for the end.
The lane up to her gate was steep and green, with foxgloves nodding in the hedge. The sun, at last, had broken through the clouds, slanting gold over the valley. Larks sang. The air smelled of wet grass and honeysuckle. Idwal climbed slowly, bag on his shoulder, cap in his hand.
Gwen was waiting at the gate in a blue summer dress, with a pot of tea on a tray.
"Last one," he said.
"I know."
"Forty years."
"I know."
He fumbled in his bag and pulled out a letter. It was an ordinary white envelope, addressed in careful handwriting: Mrs Gwen Pritchard, Rose Cottage. She turned it over, mystified, and opened it with her thumb.
It was a single sheet. In Idwal's neat copperplate, it said: Dear Gwen. I have walked this lane for forty years, and the best part has been the last six months. If you would let me come without the bag, I would like to. Yours, Idwal.
Her breath caught. The valley seemed to hold still. A lark sang above her head.
"You wrote me a letter," she said.
"It's what I know how to do."
"It's the loveliest one I've ever had."
"Can I ask you something?" said Idwal.
"Yes."
"May I kiss you, Gwen? Not as the postman."
"Yes," said Gwen. "And if you say stop, you must come to tea every day."
"That is no punishment at all."
She kissed him, soft and trembling, a hand against his weathered cheek. He kissed her back, slow and wondering, tasting of tea and rain. The valley glowed below them. A lark sang on.
When they parted, both of them were smiling.
"Green?" he asked.
"Green," said Gwen. "Very green."
He still walks up the lane every morning. He has no bag. The postman who has the round now says it is the only gate where nobody ever waits for the post.
More mature romance stories: Autumn in Quebec · The Quilting Circle · The Silver Ballroom
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