By: JD Devine

Through the gap in the yellow lace curtains, I watch Mr. Hayes arrange his miniature soldiers every Tuesday morning. Each tin warrior stands at attention, their bayonets gleaming like silver needles. He positions them on his combat map.

The parlor is a museum suspended in time. Sepia photographs in tarnished brass frames march across the walls. A grandfather clock stands sentry in the corner, its pendulum motionless as dust floats in the morning light.

Mr. Hayes moves with precision, his arthritic fingers still graceful as he positions each soldier. He wears a morning pin on his collar every day since I began the postal route. Like his morning pin, the glass of brandy and book appear daily on the table near his leather armchair.

Sometimes I wonder if he knows I watch him as he fights imaginary battles in a room where time has surrendered. His eyes never leave his tin army, and I have mail to deliver.