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Eli smiled. “Because eighty is not a number to retire on. It’s a number to rise on.”

In a small, rain-soaked town called Hearthmere, everyone knew the postman, Eli. He was eighty years old, walked with a slight limp, and carried a worn leather satchel that smelled of cedar and rain. But the children of Hearthmere called him by a different name: .

“Mrs. Gable,” he called. “It’s Eli. The postman.”