Apparently they were after the remains of the mailman’s explosion; the meat of the matter, not the letters. Seven silver cats I suspected to hail from the moons of Saturn. From Chiron. From Charon’s ancient raft. Their eyes bespoke a shattering — an urgent conflict arising near in time; warhorses assembling themselves from the dreams of dead children, warriors born from the lost hopes of the disappeared.

As to sex, they kept their secrets, fighting and mating in the burning buildings across the street. Racoons gathered to observe, but came no closer and appeared to be formed from smoke and ghost, their eyes glowing in the reflected moonlight. Their chittering like songs of star-code spoken to infants in the grip of sacred fevers.

The cats made quick work of the remains. All that’s left now are these letters, bloody and silent. A brooding testament to his last failed delivery. His stained satchel. Shreds of clothing. A ring of broken keys. Bits of tooth and bone too sturdy to admit consumption. And the witness.