在一些舊公屋裡，夜晚的走廊總是特別安靜。有人說，在所有人都關門之後，仍然會有人沿著長廊走動，把信逐戶送到門前。
In older housing blocks, corridors fall silent at night. Some say that after every door has closed, someone still walks the halls, leaving letters behind without ever being seen.

那晚很靜，舊公屋的走廊一向都不算明亮，幾盞燈隔著距離亮著，地面有些潮濕，牆身的油漆已經剝落，我回到自己單位門口的時候，整條長廊沒有其他人，也沒有聲音，我正準備開門，卻聽到遠處有腳步聲，那聲音不急不慢，一步一步，很有規律，像是有人在逐戶停下，我沒有出聲，只是站著聽，那聲音慢慢接近，停在某一戶門口，然後停了一下，又繼續向前，我忍不住向走廊另一邊看過去，看見一個人影，他穿著一件舊式的郵差制服，顏色有點褪，款式不像現在的樣子，他背對著我，站在門前，沒有敲門，只是把一封信放在門口，然後轉身走向下一戶，再停下，再放下一封，一切都很自然，像每天都在做的事，我沒有叫他，也沒有走過去，只是站在門口看著，他沒有回頭，也沒有看過我一眼，就像我根本不在那裡一樣，腳步聲繼續，一戶一戶地停下，再離開，我不知道他走了多久，也不知道他什麼時候不見的，只是當我再看過去的時候，走廊已經沒有那個人影，只剩下一條空空的長廊，還有幾盞燈亮著，我低頭看門口，地上多了一封信，白色的信封，沒有郵票，也沒有寄件人，只寫著我的名字，我沒有立即撿起來，只是看著那封信，心裡突然覺得有點不對，那種感覺不是害怕，而是像有什麼事情，本來不應該發生，我最後還是把信撿起來，紙很冷，像是放了很久，但我很清楚，剛才那裡什麼都沒有，我沒有打開，只是帶著信進屋，那一晚我沒有再理會，第二天早上，我出門的時候，再看那封信，才發現信上的名字，不只是我的名字，而是我以前用過的一個名字，很久以前的名字，我已經很久沒有再用過，我不記得有誰還會記得，我把信翻過來，沒有封口，像是早就已經被打開過，我慢慢把裡面的紙抽出來，上面只有一行字，沒有日期，也沒有署名，我看了一會，沒有完全看懂，但我記得那種感覺，那晚的腳步聲，不是第一次出現，我只是一直以為，是隔壁的聲音，之後的幾天，我開始留意那條走廊，晚上回來的時候，我會刻意停一停，聽一下，有時候，我真的會再聽到那種腳步聲，一樣的節奏，一樣的距離，停在門口，然後再走，但我沒有再看過去，我也沒有再開門確認，因為我開始覺得，那個人並不是第一次出現，只是一直都在，而那些信，也不只是送給別人

English Version

That night was unusually quiet, the corridor of the old housing block was never well lit, a few dim lights spaced far apart, the floor slightly damp, the paint on the walls peeling with age, when I reached my door, the entire hallway was empty, no voices, no movement, I was about to unlock the door when I heard footsteps from a distance, slow and steady, not hurried, not hesitant, just a consistent rhythm, as if someone was moving from one door to the next, I didn’t say anything, I stood still and listened, the sound drew closer, then stopped at a door further down the corridor, paused briefly, and then continued, I looked toward the far end and saw a figure, dressed in what looked like an old postal uniform, faded, outdated, not something you would see anymore, he stood in front of a door, without knocking, simply placing a letter on the ground before moving on, stopping again at the next unit, repeating the same action, it felt routine, almost ordinary, like something done every night, I didn’t call out, I didn’t step forward, I stayed where I was and watched, he never turned around, never acknowledged me, as if I wasn’t there at all, the footsteps continued, door after door, until at some point, I realized I could no longer see him, the corridor was empty again, the lights unchanged, the silence returned, I looked down at my door, and there it was, an envelope, plain white, no stamp, no return address, only my name written on it, I didn’t pick it up immediately, something about it felt out of place, not frightening, but wrong in a way I couldn’t explain, eventually I picked it up, the paper felt cold, not like something freshly delivered, even though I knew it hadn’t been there before, I brought it inside but didn’t open it that night, the next morning, as I prepared to leave, I looked at it again and noticed something I hadn’t before, the name wasn’t just mine, it was an older version of it, one I hadn’t used in years, something almost no one would remember, I turned the envelope over, it wasn’t sealed, as if it had already been opened at some point, I slid the paper out slowly, inside there was only a single line, no date, no signature, I read it, but didn’t fully understand it, yet something felt familiar, the footsteps from the night before, they weren’t new, I had heard them before, I had just always assumed they came from someone else’s door, in the following nights, I started paying attention to the corridor, sometimes, very late, I would hear it again, the same rhythm, the same pauses, stopping at doors, then moving on, but I never looked again, I never opened the door to check, because I had begun to understand that the man wasn’t appearing for the first time, he had always been there, and the letters he left were never meant for just anyone