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MidReal Story
The Boy Who Brought Light To The World
Scenario:Tired of being a postbox, I journey through the city, searching for meaning beyond delivering letters.
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Postman
He is a postal worker who dreams of a different life. He is disillusioned, restless, and yearning. Struggling with the mundane routine of delivering letters, he longs for adventure and meaning. Haunted by the memory of his father, a World War II pilot, he feels unfulfilled. On a spontaneous trip to the coast, he meets a woman named Sarah, who changes his perspective and makes him realize the world has more to offer than just duty.
Sarah
She is a young woman working at a cafe near the coast. She is freespirited, empathetic, and lively. Encountering the postman on one of her days off, she befriends him and invites him in for lunch. Her infectious energy and genuine interest in his life stir something in him. Together, they explore the coast and discuss dreams. Sarah represents a world beyond his ordinary existence, and her friendship with him marks the beginning of a new chapter.
I was tired of being a postman.
I didn’t know what I wanted to be instead, but I was tired of delivering letters.
It wasn’t as if it was a bad job, not really.
Most people were pleasant when I came to their door with a parcel or a bill.
Some even smiled and said hello, and chatted about the weather for a few minutes.
But it was routine, day in and day out, and I was bored, so very bored with it all.
I longed for something else.
I didn’t know what else, but something that wasn’t just trudging along in the rain with my heavy bag of letters slung over my shoulder.
Something more.
My father had been a pilot in World War II.
He used to tell me stories about flying over Africa and bombing the Germans.
About how he had crash-landed once and walked for days through the desert until he was rescued.
He had been shot down by the enemy, and that was why he walked with a limp for the rest of his life.
I remembered him sitting by the fire on winter evenings telling those stories, his eyes gleaming with excitement, and I had always wanted to hear more.
During my lunch break, I found myself wandering down Fifth Street, where the old brick library building stood.
I pushed open the heavy wooden doors and stepped inside.
The postman’s bag was still slung over my shoulder, and it bumped against the desk as I approached the front counter.
The librarian looked up at me over the rim of her glasses.
She was an elderly woman with grey hair pulled back into a bun, and a kind smile on her face.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
"I’m looking for something to read," I replied.
"Something about military history."
She nodded and pointed to a section in the back of the room.
"You might find something there," she said.
I thanked her and walked over to the shelves she had indicated.
My fingers trailed along the spines of the books, reading the titles and authors.
Most of them were about battles or wars, but none of them seemed quite right. Then I saw it - a thick volume with a black cover and gold lettering.
It was titled "RAF Pilots in World War II," and it looked like just what I was searching for.
I pulled it off the shelf and opened it, scanning the contents page.
There were chapters on different squadrons and aircraft, as well as personal stories from some of the pilots themselves.
I turned to one of these stories, and a black and white photograph fell out onto the floor.
I picked it up, dusting off the dirt that had accumulated on its surface over time.
It showed a group of young men standing beside their plane, dressed in flight suits and smiling at the camera.
"That's my father," I whispered, staring at the familiar face in the photograph.
The librarian had quietly approached and peered over my shoulder. "Your father was a pilot?" she asked, her voice filled with genuine curiosity.
"Yes," I said, feeling a rush of pride mixed with a tinge of sadness. "He never mentioned he was part of this squadron."
Sitting at my usual corner table in the library, I carefully opened the worn RAF book.
The musty pages crackled as I turned them, searching for more mentions of Dad’s squadron.
The librarian, Ms. Chen, brought me a cup of steaming tea and sat down beside me.
She pointed to the margins of the pages, where previous readers had scribbled notes about the missions and crew members.
My fingers traced Dad’s face in the squadron photo while Ms. Chen helped me decipher the faded handwriting beside it.
A name caught my eye: James Morrison, Dad’s co-pilot.
I’d heard that name before.