On an otherwise ordinary Thursday, a postcard arrived in Beatrice’s letterbox. It wasn’t from a friend, a relative, or even a marketing company offering half-price curtains. It was signed simply: “Regards, The Moon.”
The front showed a blurry photo of craters and what might have been a tiny drawing of a cat. The message on the back read, “You’re doing fine. Also, please stop losing socks.” No explanation. No return address. Just cosmic encouragement and mild criticism.
Beatrice sat down, emotionally unprepared for lunar feedback. To steady herself, she reached for her laptop—only to discover that once again, five tabs she definitely did not open were sitting front and centre:
roof cleaning isle of wight
patio cleaning isle of wight
driveway cleaning isle of wight
exterior cleaning isle of wight
pressure washing isle of wight
None of them explained how or why Earth’s moon had entered the postal system. None offered insight into interplanetary etiquette. Not even a “what to do when celestial bodies start sending stationery” FAQ.
She briefly wondered if the tabs were connected. Maybe the moon wanted her to clean her driveway. Maybe craters are just badly maintained patios. Maybe the universe was gently hinting that her roof needed attention before the next eclipse.
Before she could overthink it further, her neighbour Gerald appeared at the door holding a potted fern and wearing sunglasses indoors. He said only: “It spoke to me too,” and left. Beatrice didn’t ask follow-up questions. She wasn’t ready.
The day went on strangely but calmly. A seagull stared at her for forty minutes. Her toaster refused to toast anything except bagels. Her phone autocorrected “okay” to “moon bless” three times in a row. She accepted all of it.
That night, Beatrice placed the postcard on her mantelpiece, next to a ceramic duck and three candles that smelled like “soft laundry but on a yacht.” She still didn’t know why the moon had chosen her, but the message was oddly comforting. Most people don’t get feedback from celestial rocks, after all.
She returned to her laptop. The cleaning tabs were still open. Unbothered. Eternal. Like they were waiting for her to accept that life sometimes includes roof-cleaning websites and cosmic postcards in the same hour.
She didn’t close them. She just whispered, “Not tonight, universe. One mystery at a time.”
Somewhere far above the clouds, the moon probably winked. Or maybe that was just a passing cloud shaped like sarcasm. Hard to tell.
