The Postman’s Last Delivery: A Story of Love and Dreams
- Nick Ho
- Feb 6
- 11 min read
Updated: Feb 7
✉️📦✉️ Part 1 ✉️📦✉️
(Scene: AZB International, a multinational company in Tsim Sha Tsui, Hong Kong. 11 AM.)
(The Office buzzes with activity—employees moving around, chatting, and typing away at their desks. In the well-furnished office of SUSAN, the marketing manager, YOU and DAN, both 24, are deep in discussion with her when the door swings open.)
(MARY, the 48-year-old department secretary, storms in, looking exasperated.)
Mary: Susan, I can’t take this anymore!
Susan: What is it this time, Mary? Who’s ruined your day?
(Mary huffs, briefly glancing at you and Dan—newcomers, so not worth her attention.)
Mary: I swear, if I have to deal with that postman one more time, I might just lose it.
(Susan picks up a box of chocolates from her desk and holds it out. Mary grabs three pieces, popping one into her mouth before continuing.)
Susan: The postman? You mean that old guy who could barely walk?
Mary: No, not him. If it were still him, I wouldn’t be this mad. At least he was slow and harmless. (pauses) By the way, that guy retired.
Susan: Oh? Then who—
Mary: The new one. Young. Rude. Thinks he’s a big deal.
Susan: What did he do?
Mary: For weeks, I’ve told him—don’t put your dirty mailbag on the reception desk. And guess what? He does it anyway. Every. Single. Time.
Susan: Didn’t we settle this two years ago? I remember we filed an official complaint. Their supervisor promised it wouldn’t happen again.
Mary: Oh, you think they care? They act like they’ll fix things, but give it a few months, and it’s back to the same nonsense. Makes me wonder why I’m paying so much tax just to feed these idiots.
(Dan joins the conversation.)
Dan: I don’t get it. Can’t he just carry the bag on his shoulder? Or put it on the floor instead?
Mary: Oh no, that would be too much effort. And apparently, their so-called postal guidelines say the bag shouldn’t touch the floor. Something about “protecting the mail.”
You: (softly) I mean… I wouldn’t want my parcel sitting on the ground, even inside a bag.
(Mary gives you a sharp look but then shrugs.)
Mary: Fine. Then carry it on your shoulder! But this guy, no, he just dumps it wherever he wants.
You: Their mailbags do look heavy…
(Mary doesn’t reply. She looks at Susan, inviting her to chime in.)
Susan: Heavy or not, they’re paid to do their job. And they should have the common sense to know that the desk is our property. It’s not there for their convenience.
(Mary nods, satisfied that Susan agrees with her.)
Mary: The old guy was terrible, but this new one? He doesn’t even acknowledge me! I tell him something, and he acts like I don’t exist. No nod, no response—nothing. Just takes his time moving the bag, slow as possible, like I’m invisible.
Dan: Bet he’s doing it on purpose.
Mary: Oh, for sure. The next day, he drags a hand truck through our lobby—right across the marble floor!
Dan: Those wheels must scratch the floor.
Mary: Exactly! So I stop him and go, “Excuse me? What do you think you’re doing?” And you know what he said?
Susan: What did he say?
Mary: “Delivering mail.” All casual, like I’m the crazy one.
Dan: Acting tough but doesn’t know who he really is.
(Susan chuckles, shaking her head.)
Susan: Gotta love the attitude. How old is he?
Mary: (gesturing at you and Dan) About their age.
Susan: Any other funny stuff to add?
Mary: Oh yes, the smell! I swear, all postmen stink, but this one? I can’t even describe it. Like a wet dog that’s been marinating in sweat.
(Dan laughs.)
Dan: Think they should get a uniform upgrade? Maybe spray some perfume before they clock in.
Mary: Nah, perfume or not, they’d just stink up the lift.
(Mary smirks, momentarily satisfied.)
Mary: Anyway, I need that postman’s full name.
Susan: Why?
Mary: Yesterday, I told him I’d report him. Asked for his staff card. You know what he said? “It’s my privacy.”
(Susan leans back in her chair, amused.)
Susan: Privacy? People act like that means anything these days.
(She turns to you.)
Susan: Toby, draft an email to the post office. Make it sound serious—highlight his unprofessionalism, his rough attitude, and the damage to our property.
(She pauses.)
Susan: And take some photos of the lobby. Check if there are any scratch marks or dirt—whether they’re from that hand truck or not. We’ll use them as evidence.
Dan: Think we can get him fired?
Mary: Civil servants? Fired? Please.
Dan: Still, at least we’ll make him sweat a little.
Mary: Good. I hate seeing those ugly green uniforms at our entrance. They look like—what’s the word…?
Dan: (grinning) Frogs?
(The three of them burst into laughter. Mary, less furious now, finishes her chocolates and exits. You and Dan turn back to Susan, who resumes the project briefing.)
✉️🎄✉️ Part 2 ✉️🎄✉️
(Scene: Three years later, Christmas Eve, 10:30 PM.)
(The Tsim Sha Tsui Promenade glows with festive lights reflecting off Victoria Harbour. The air is crisp, filled with laughter and music as couples stroll, friends gather, and a group sings carols nearby.)
(You, now 27, walk hand in hand with Dan along the waterfront, soaking in the magic of the night, waiting for Christmas to arrive.)
You: Dan, thanks so much for dinner. It was amazing. But I think you spent a little too much on Christmas dinner at a hotel like that.
Dan: Don’t say that, Toby. Money doesn’t matter when you’re with the person who means the most to you.
You: I know, but still… I’d be just as happy at a simple restaurant, as long as I’m with you.
Dan: Come on, you think I’d take my girl to just any restaurant on Christmas? Besides, I can always make the money back. One day, I’ll be someone. Trust me.
You: I’ve always believed in you.
(You rest your head on Dan’s shoulder as you turn a corner, the Christmas lights casting a warm glow around you. Looking up at him, you smile playfully.)
You: Dan, am I the most important person to you?
You: (teasing) Smooth talker. But seriously, I’m so happy today. I hope we can celebrate Christmas Eve together every year. It doesn’t have to be in a fancy restaurant. I don’t need presents… I just need you.
Dan: Is that from a song?
You: Yeah, I know it sounds cheesy, but I mean it. I really don’t need anything else… I just want to stay in this moment forever.
(A brief pause.)
You: Dan, promise me we’ll celebrate Christmas like this every year, from now on.
Dan: (stopping, gazing into your eyes) We will.
(He ruffles your hair as you rest against his chest.)
(As you walk toward the Hong Kong Cultural Centre, you notice a small crowd gathered ahead. A moment later, the sound of a trumpet drifts through the air—smooth, melancholic, yet beautiful. It’s not a Christmas carol, but it stops you in your tracks, captivated.)
You: I love this tune he’s playing. It really touches my heart.
Dan: Oh, really? I don’t feel anything.
You: It makes me happy knowing there are still people in this city playing music just for the love of it, especially on Christmas Eve. It’s a simple way to spread holiday joy.
Dan: (shrugging) I don’t know… if he’s doing this to share the joy of Christmas, he should’ve closed his trumpet case and not asked for any money.
You: Don’t be too harsh, Dan. Life’s tough here, and busking isn’t easy. People need to make a living too.
Dan: Hey, I’m not against making money while busking. It’s just that his performance isn’t anything special. I was in a university orchestra, so I know the difference.
You: Really? You were in an orchestra? That’s amazing, Dan. You’re so talented.
Dan: Yeah, I started piano when I was 10 and reached grade 8 by 15. I haven’t played much since university, but one day, when I’m older and retired, I want to pick it up again—not on the street like this, though.
You: I think he’s not bad. It’s more about how much he loves playing his trumpet. Besides, it’s free entertainment on Christmas Eve, right?
Dan: Yeah, you’re right. I guess we can’t ask too much from a busker. Still, it takes talent to stand out in music.
You: Can someone get good at it just by practicing?
Dan: No. Talent’s something you’re born with—practice won’t change that. If he were really good, he wouldn’t be playing on the street.
You: Yeah, I guess you’re right.
Dan: Buskers always think they’ll get discovered, hoping a record label will notice them. If I were him, I’d invest in promotion, hire a manager, and make the right connections. People just don’t want to spend on marketing.
You: I think he just sees it as a hobby. He’s not as ambitious as you. That’s what I love about you, Dan—you always aim higher.
Dan: Thanks, Toby. True, I don’t settle for anything less than the best. I don’t hang out with people who compromise. But that’s just who I am.
(The busker finishes playing and takes a break, chatting with a couple in the crowd. He removes his sunglasses, and you both get a closer look.)
Dan: Hey, doesn’t this trumpeter look familiar? Didn’t we see him before?
You: Wait a second… isn’t that the postman who delivers our mail?
✉️🎺✉️ Part 3 ✉️🎺✉️
(Scene: Three years later, Christmas Eve.)
(At 30, you’ve just ended a five-year relationship with Dan after discovering his betrayal. Working late on Christmas Eve as a deputy manager, you sit alone in the office, eating takeaway and scrolling through your phone.)
(Around 11:30 PM, you leave the office and walk along the Tsim Sha Tsui Promenade, feeling the sting of loneliness. You find a quiet spot by Victoria Harbour, lost in memories.)
(Then you hear the sound of a trumpet. It’s the POSTMAN, just like every Christmas Eve for the past four years, playing by the fountain. You approach, slip a 100-dollar note into his case, and listen.)
(His music stirs something deep within, and soon, tears well up. As the last note fades, the crowd applauds. The postman wipes his trumpet, removes his sunglasses, and your eyes meet.)
Postman: You okay?
You: I think we’ve met before.
Postman: Did we?
You: I work in that building over there. 62nd floor, marketing.
Postman: Not an address I want to hear on Christmas Eve.
You: I know. We weren’t exactly friendly to you. I actually wrote a complaint about you once.
Postman: Did you?
You: Yeah. I was a new employee, just following orders. I didn’t agree with it all, but I guess I just became part of it over time.
Postman: My supervisor was furious when she got that email. She and her boss came to your company to apologize. I ended up calling in sick for a week to avoid the trouble.
You: Smart move.
Postman: Honestly, it was ridiculous. They treated it like I committed a crime.
You: I don’t know why they made such a big deal out of something so small. Looking back, it seems so stupid.
(You glance at his black jacket and red sweater, and for a moment, he feels like a completely different person from the one in his green postman uniform.)
You: Do you like your job?
Postman: Hate it. Do you?
You: I used to love it, but over time, it changes you. You start wondering if this is all there is. You ask yourself, do I want to end up like my manager when I’m 50?
Postman: Yeah, I get that.
(A brief pause.)
You: You know, I’ve been your audience for four years.
Postman: My audience?
You: Every Christmas Eve, my ex and I would walk past here. We’d always stop for two or three songs before we left.
Postman: Well, you should’ve come over to say hi. I would’ve played anything you wanted.
You: That’s kind of you.
Postman: I guess I owe you a tune for that complaint email you sent.
You: I’m sorry for that. But this is the first time I’ve ever put money in your trumpet case, after all these years.
Postman: Well, you paid well, so I’m thankful.
You: I can’t play music… never had the talent. But I’ve always appreciated those who can. Your trumpet always touches my heart.
Postman: Thanks. I think I’ve gotten better over the years. But music is endless. I just hope I can keep playing as long as I live.
You: Have you ever thought about becoming a full-time musician?
Postman: Yeah. I’ve been saving up for it. I want to go on a grand tour, travel the world, and build my music career with my own hands.
You: When will that day come?
(He hesitates, a moment of silence passing.)
Postman: I’d rather not say. I’m a bit superstitious about it. I don’t want to jinx it, you know? Let’s just say… it’ll come when it’s time.
You: I wish I could do that—just focus on what I love and not worry about what others think.
Postman: You can, if you want it badly enough.
You: There was a chance for me to transfer to the New York office once. I turned it down because of… my life here. Now, I regret it.
Postman: New York? That’s where all the talent is. You should apply again.
You: I don’t know… I haven’t thought about it since then.
Postman: I’d definitely go to New York! It’s the place to be for music, the most exciting place in the world! One day, I’ll be there.
(You look at him, his enthusiasm catching you off guard. For a moment, you think of Dan—the way he used to be.)
You: (standing up) I’ve got to go. But I’m really glad we talked. It feels like we’ve known each other for years, doesn’t it?
Postman: I’ll be sure to say ‘hello’ next time. If I don’t get another complaint, that is.
You: Merry Christmas.
Postman: You too. Goodbye.
✉️✈️✉️ Part 4 ✉️✈️✉️
(Scene: A few weeks later. 11 AM. You’re in Susan’s office, having a casual discussion.)
(Suddenly, the door bursts open, and Mary, now 54, rushes in, visibly frustrated.)
Mary: Susan, I can’t deal with these people anymore! I’m at my limit!
Susan: What happened now? Who’s got you upset?
Mary: That postman! Does he really have to put his bag on the reception desk? What’s wrong with him?
Susan: Didn’t we already tell him not to do that?
Mary: No, not him—the new one. If it was the last one, I wouldn’t mind as much. He was always polite after our complaint. He even noticed I change my earrings every day. But this new guy? Terrible.
(You glance out the office window, suppressing a slight frown.)
Mary: This time, I’m taking it all the way. I got his full name.
Susan: Oh, really? How did you manage that?
Mary: Easy. I told him if he didn’t give me his name, I’d make a formal complaint.
Susan: And are you going to?
Mary: Of course. What would I need his name for, if not to report him?
Susan: You’re ruthless, Mary.
Mary: I’ve got the time, and I don’t back down. Someone has to teach these people a lesson—they won’t listen otherwise.
You: (casually) Did the last postman get transferred or something?
Mary: I heard he quit. Who quits a government job, right? But honestly, I don’t think a postman has a lot of options.
You: What was his name, by the way?
Mary: No idea. I never bothered to ask. I just called him “Chap.”
(As Mary goes on, discussing the details of her complaint with Susan, your mind begins to drift.)
(You move toward the window, gazing out at the quiet expanse of Victoria Harbour. For a moment, everything feels still as if time itself is pausing.)
(Your mind drifts to the postman—the way his music filled the night, the calmness in his voice that contrasted so sharply with the frustration you hear from Mary. You imagine him on his journey, wherever it might take him—no mailbags, no ties, no limitations.)
You: (whispering to yourself) Do I... do I want it badly enough?
(Posted on 6.2.2025)
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