[🐦 📩 you've got mail!] as ⇄ rz.
[ Early one morning, there is a knock on the door of The Final Rest, and outside is a bright-eyed young man with a pigeon on his shoulder. "G’morning, message for you," he greets as he holds out a tightly rolled-up letter. Written on the front in thin, cramped handwriting are the words "TO RAHAT ZAMAN." Unfolding it reveals a letter that clearly exceeded its target length. It reads as follows—]
ANDY: Dear Rahat,
ANDY: You would never guess what just happened to me. Late last year, several people moved in next door. It was a noisy affair so my landlady popped over for some tea and learned that they’re using their house as an outpost of the very newly formed Pigeon Public Ornithological Society of Telecommunication, also known as Pigeon P.O.S.T.! Which specialises in… pigeon post. In 1889!
ANDY: I was intrigued by their mission of "sharing the time-honored joy of communicating via messenger pigeon once again," and delighted when they invited me to employ their services on a trial basis. However I wasn’t quite sure to whom I would write until yesterday, when they mentioned having an outpost a couple of doors down from your home. Which is why you’re reading a note that was delivered 95 percent by messenger pigeon, 5 percent by messenger person. (The pigeon’s name is Albert.)
ANDY: Have I just rambled? Maybe so. But I do have news—I have finally, properly developed our photographs from the Frost Fair. I look like a large green fool next to you, but since these photos aren’t in colour I simply look like a large fool—which is rather accurate. I DO like the photos though. It nearly looks like you’re laughing in one of them. If you squint.
ANDY: How have you been doing? I hope you have gotten enough rest. And I forget—have you named the mannequin in your window? I realised I call her Marjorie in my head, but you may have given her a different name and I don’t want to be rude. Ha ha!
ANDY: Cheers, Andy Sharma