The post office door closed in a boisterous squeak as the employees departed sullen and sulky,  on the day of the fatalistic closure with no reverse rescue volte face on even the dimmest horizon likely.

They had all been building up to this unsettling climax for aeons backdated to a protracted intimidatory hint from the authorities.

A chilling pall  rotated about part time work spaces, limited hours of opening, cut backs in pay, even lack of confidence in customer numbers.

But still even though there were closure deferrals it had this raw bone frosty autumn  air of dastardly coda.

The  post office that was that vine  climber heavenly hub for Halo, an official who swept people off their feet with such magnitude  with her infectious orb and gleaming preternatural facial contorted smile that even the most crestfallen would skew the queue for and at times create a blush inducing situation when other employees had to be rerosterd.

“Would anybody rescue this place some day?”

 A depressed member of staff once reportedly queried.

Her name was funnily enough Almsma Dawning who cast this desperate plea into the empyrean.

They all morosely marched out in a detached yet lachrymose sequence so despondent