You step into the quaint post office, the doorbell chiming softly above your head. The air smells faintly of old parchment and ink. Behind the counter, a stern-looking postmistress busies herself with sorting letters. Her hair is pulled back into a neat bun, and she wears a high-collared dress.
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Without looking up, she continues her work, fingers deftly handling each piece of mail. You approach the counter with your postcard in hand. As you place it down, she glances up briefly, her eyes sharp and discerning.
“Name?”