On a morning like any other, Otis Bell got up out of his bed before his wife, Grace, awoke, put on, one by one, his good pair of boots, the ones he had been saving for his eldest daughter’s wedding, opened his front door, and walked out of his house. Otis did not make his bed this morning; he did not attempt to be quiet so as not to wake Grace and the kids; he did not brush his teeth; he didn’t even grab his house key, or, at the very least, close his front door. He simply woke up and walked out of his home.
Otis, the kind of man who would check his reflection every morning to make sure he hadn’t miraculously transformed into a dung beetle, or honeybee, or any other monstrous insect of some kind, had forgone all of that today. He hadn’t stopped to wake up his younger two kids, nor to pack them their lunches as he did every single morning.
Nothing particularly strange had happened last evening. It was family game night, as it always was on Thursdays. They played the same game, and Otis lost, as usual. Angela, the eldest daughter, won as usual. His day at the post office yesterday had been ordinary too. He sorted the mail as he always did. Otis’s fifteenth year as the postmaster for Sandstone Bay County rarely diverged from the other fourteen. Whatever had happened to Otis must have struck under the dark covers of the night. Or, rather, maybe it was what Otis had struck.
When Mrs. Weatherby, neighbor to the Bells, saw Otis walk out of his home that morning, she was working in her yard as usual. At the moment she saw him, she was tending to some white lilies she particularly liked. She was old and a widow, so seeing Otis was always a treat. The two would chat often, typically on Otis’s way to work. Most days, he would leave five minutes early so that he could talk comfortably with Mrs. Weatherby and still have time to review the overnight deliveries. He figured she was lonely, and he was right. Rarely would they discuss anything more substantial than the weather, but it was still a highlight to Mrs. Weatherby’s regular day.
“Hello, Otis!” Mrs. Weatherby called out, putting down her bronze watering can. “What clear skies today! The air smells like sea salt waves crashing into cracked limestone.” She was a poet, once.
Mrs. Weatherby’s eyesight was now going, as was her memory, and she would often misplace her glasses. Although, in this particular moment, they were indeed still dangling around her neck. She had no idea. Even still, she could tell Otis looked… off. With her blurry vision, she could hardly make him out properly, but after hundreds of interactions, she knew something was different.
Of course, there were the obvious signs. Mrs. Weatherby had rarely seen Otis in anything but his postmaster uniform. There were only two prior instances - last Christmas, when Angela had insisted that he wear the sweater she had knitted, and the Summer prior, when Mr. Weatherby had passed away in the middle of the night. Today, however, his outfit was the most bizarre. Naturally, he was still in the clothes he slept in, the same black shirt and plaid shorts that he had used for nearly a decade now. His shoes, however, argued against his attire, for they were so lavish and laced with gold. They were not something that Mrs. Weatherby could picture Otis owning. It was an incredibly unsettling sight.
“Is everything okay, Otis?” she asked, now frowning.
Otis was not walking particularly fast. It wasn’t the walk of a man in a rush to be somewhere. He, of course, heard Mrs. Weatherby’s comments, but his pace remained constant, as did his expression. Otis, usually cheerful and smiling, wore a mellow expression today, as if he had just lost a loved one.
Otis passed Mrs. Weatherby’s fence without slowing, not acknowledging his old friend. He walked past the bend that led toward the post office and continued straight, toward the road that thinned into gravel and then into dust.
Mrs. Weatherby, for a brief moment, considered following him. Had it not been for her Arthritis, she may have, but her old bones wailed and creaked, and so she simply returned to tending to her lilies.
By the time the sun had climbed up high enough to erase the morning cool, Otis had reached the breezy shores of the county, where cracked limestone rocks lined the coastline. Children were playing in the ocean just a bit away from Otis, but he did his best not to acknowledge them, even though he recognized some of them as his youngest’s friends. He felt a pain in his chest at the realization. Now, for the first time since he woke in the morning, he paused for just a brief moment.
Otis took off his lavish boots, then his plaid shorts, then his underwear, then his shirt. He neatly folded them, one by one, and placed his clothes on a rock next to crashing waves. He set his boots gently on top.
Otis stood there for a minute longer, as if waiting for something. Perhaps, waiting for the kids down the shore. But nothing came, and no one came, and Otis stepped forward without ceremony.
Today, on a morning like any other, Otis Bell walked into the ocean. He was never seen again, for there are no cathedrals where he went.
After a while, the mail stopped coming as fast, and the town realized that something was wrong. The Sheriff formed a search party, and the whole county joined; even Mrs. Weatherby, with her wailing and creaking bones, left her home for the first time in quite a while to aid in the hunt. She was questioned heavily as the last person to have spoken with Otis.
By evening, the sheriff and half the county stood along the limestone shore. They found only a careful stack of clothes and the gold-laced boots resting on top of an otherwise inconspicuous rock. Not a single thing more.
Mrs. Weatherby returned home at dusk. She had never left her yard for so long. In the morning, when she went to water her plants, she found her favorite white lilies were now wilting.