The office was dusty, with bins and bins of mail piled on the table. Incoming and outgoing mail both sat resignedly in their separate bins, all with a fine layer of dust encasing them. In the darkest corner of the office stood Hugo, keys clanking as the middle-aged postman called it a day and began to listlessly pack up. Leather satchel on his shoulder and finger resting on the light switch, Hugo wearily surveyed the room one last time, his blue eyes expecting the monotone browns, whites, and blues of the forlorn post office. But a bright red bundle of enveloped peeking behind a bin caught his attention, as his fingers let go of the light switch and instead grasped the bundle of three letters. The recipients were unnamed, but the addresses were identically written in blue cursive: 145 Royal Boulevard. It seemed faintly familiar to Hugo, but he couldn’t remember why, as usual. But the sun was setting and the laborious sorting of letters had drained Hugo, so he tucked the crimson letters into his satchel and the office plunged into darkness as he flicked off the lights. 

In a tiny cottage at the edge of town lived Hugo, alone. By sundown he was nestled in his armchair, repeating the same exercise he endeavored to complete every day since the Accident. A tattered photo sat on his lap as Hugo scrutinized every picture to seize any possible recollection of a memory. His eyes paused, intently, at a boy laughing atop a wooden sled as he sped down the slope. The boy was him, he knew. The Accident had washed away everything else, including his entire childhood. “You have retrograde amnesia, but you will regain your memory soon,” they said, but Hugo knew, deep inside his despairing soul, that the Accident had taken everything from him, permanently. The photo was cast aside after hours spent trying to glean any recollection, to no avail. Hugo sank further into hopelessness. To live with no memories, he had found, was painful. It was akin to wading through the middle of a snowstorm, with no idea where he was going, where he came from, or anything that was around him. Everything around him was blank, unwritten, devoid of familiarity and warmth. He was lonely. His lost memories had severed any connections he had and he was stuck in the snowstorm, with no one to pull him out. The sky looked down at Hugo in pity and cried for him, rain pattering the window as he fell into a troubled sleep in the armchair. 

The next morning was bitterly cold as Hugo, shivering, left the cottage, intending to deliver the crimson letters before work. 145 Royal Boulevard was only a few miles away. Hugo arrived to an unlit “Farmer’s Market” sign perched on the clearly abandoned building, the windows grimy and the signs askew. The only sign of life was a freshly painted red mailbox near the entrance. Slightly spooked but in a hurry, Hugo shoved in the three letters and drove towards another monotonous day at the post office. 

The purple streaks of sunset were just beginning to emerge as Hugo trudged up the path to the cottage, jumping back in alarm as he noticed the same bundle of crimson letters on the doorstep. He glanced around, but the yard was motionless. Looking back down, he realized that Instead of three, four crimson letters bore new, identical addresses: 45 Paris Avenue. Unsettled about the unrecognized address but too weary to ponder the mysterious return of the letters, he placed them into the satchel and went inside. 

Later that night, on the armchair, Hugo remembered for the very first time. 

The elation of remembering the supermarket from his childhood, vibrant and bustling, kindled a newfound excitement in Hugo. Determined to deliver the four crimson letters to their rightful recipient, he drove to 45 Paris Avenue even amidst the escalating chattering of his teeth from the cold. He arrived at a playground with several swings and monkey bars, from which a toddler hung from. Dismayed at the obscure location, Hugo looked for a place to mail them. Perhaps whoever they were meant for would know where to look, he thought. The bundle was deposited in a dull gray mailbox, and Hugo drove towards another day sorting and delivering mail. 

Crimson bundles of letters greeted Hugo once again as he climbed up the steps. They had multiplied to eight letters, neatly strung into two bundles. The address had changed once more, to now display another unfamiliar address, 9 Park Drive. Sufficiently alarmed, Hugo tried to deduce the mysterious nature of the letters’ return to him. His mind, however, was frozen from the frigid air. Unable to form any coherent conclusion, Hugo did the only thing he knew. His hands gripped the battered photograph as he stared into the murky recesses of his mind. Hugo remembered, for the second time in his life. The stars in the sky twinkled brilliantly, like the strange, faraway form of happiness arising in Hugo that he himself could not completely fathom.

The eight letters were slipped into the satchel, which was eagerly hoisted into Hugo’s shoulder as he set out for 9 Park Drive at sunrise. The image of his childhood self swinging on the monkey bars at the playground remained fresh in his mind. Determined to find the person behind the letters and perhaps even the trickling of memories back into his brain, he vowed to question everyone he found. 9 Park Drive, to Hugo’s surprise, was a barren hill overlooking the town. Not a soul was in sight. The only object he found was a steel box bolted to the earth at the hill’s flank. Hugo stood in the piercing cold, hours passing as the wind whipped around him. He fought against it, futilely, as his eyes watered, yet no one appeared. Thoroughly tired and afraid, Hugo gave up, depositing the eight crimson letters into the box. He did not go to the post office that day, but instead drove home, defeated. 

As Hugo drove up the driveway to his cottage, shock gripped his body as his eyes took in the bundles and bundles of letters engulfing the steps leading up to his front door. They spilled over into the grass next to the steps, the crimson envelopes resembling brilliant rubies against the faded browns of the dying grass. They sat neatly, exactly four to a bundle and almost bursting at the seams. The top of each bundle was tied into a bow of golden yarn. Hugo slowly got out of his car, his hands slightly trembling as he picked up an envelope in the nearest bundle. The address read 89 Memorial St. His hands began to shake as he picked up the next bundle, all with the same address, 89 Memorial St. They trembled violently as he realized that every single letter bore his own address.

Hugo cleared some of the letters to sit on the steps, facing his car. He untied the golden yarn from one of the bundles, and anxiously opened the envelope. His eyes widened as he took out one of the many pictures stuffed into the envelope. It was a little boy at the supermarket, grinning from ear to ear as he lifted a pumpkin almost half his size. Somehow, some way, Hugo knew it was him. The warmth of the memory began to reveal itself in his brain. Hugo began to cry, thin rivers of tears that swam down his cheeks. It was so cold, and he shivered but did not stop. He took out photographs, one after another, crimson letter after letter. The river of his tears began to flow faster and more intensely, as each photograph unlocked a memory that had been hidden from him for so long. After going through half of the bundles, all filled with photographs, Hugo went inside to retrieve the frayed photograph of himself on the sled, his tears developing into sobs as he remembered that 9 Park Drive was the very same hill he sledded on all those years ago. 

It started to get colder, but Hugo’s tears did not stop. He sat on the steps, the golden threads now forming a pile on the side as the bundles were opened. It began to snow. Hugo did not move. His fingers were beginning to become frozen, but Hugo clutched them to his chest as he remembered. He remembered his first day of school, the aroma of his favorite apple pie, and the touch of the smooth baseball bat he clutched nervously in his hands. How liberating, to remember at last! It began to snow harder. Hugo did not stop. He was rediscovering himself, even as his tears froze and he began to breathe raggedly. The memories were awakening in his brain. All of the warm yellows, cold blues, and everything in between swam in abundance. The wind began to howl as the snow piled onto Hugo, thicker and thicker. The sights, the sounds, the smells, the intricate details of Hugo’s existence had poured into his soul. Finally unchained from his fugue, Hugo abruptly stopped looking through the photographs. The snow fell fiercely, and began to slow his heartbeat. Hugo did not go inside. He had discovered the meaning of himself, and did not need to know anymore. The colors of his memories ignited Hugo’s soul for the first and last time as the cold stopped his heart, and he set himself free.