The First Pipe.
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The pipe appeared sometime between the last letter being posted and the postmistress locking the door.
No one saw it arrive.
In Ballykillduff, this was not considered suspicious. Things often arrived without arriving. Days slipped in sideways. Tuesdays borrowed from Thursdays. A sheep once spent an entire afternoon convinced it was a gate. Compared to these, a pipe was a small matter.
It was brass, newly polished but already faintly tired-looking, as though it had anticipated being admired for only a short while. It ran vertically up the outside wall of the post office, stopping just short of the roof, and ended in a small valve that hissed very gently, like someone attempting to whisper a secret to a brick.
Below the valve was a round gauge.
The needle trembled.
The word printed beneath it read: NEARLY…
To be continued
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 