The postman's round — Matji & Co.

Sato-san has delivered our letters for thirty-one years, on the same red bicycle, in the same unhurried order: the tofu shop, the bakery, the bathhouse, the shrine, and the little matcha café last, because by then the tea is ready. The English village of my youth had a postman of exactly this kind, red van and all, and I have believed ever since that a street is only as calm as its postman.

Dawn street: a weathered Japanese postman on a red bicycle, bell ringing once, mailbag full

His route in rhythm: passing the tofu shop, the bakery, the bathhouse and the shrine steps in one flowing streetscape

At the café: his mailbag resting by the door while he drinks matcha, four small green shapes slipping into the bag between parcels

This morning his mailbag is heavier than usual. Four Matji have stowed away among the parcels, having decided — after committee discussion — that the postal system wants supervision.

The postman lifting the now-heavier bag with a puzzled look, one tiny eye peeking from under the flap

Letter inspection: a small creature holding an envelope up to the light while the postman waits, professionally patient

One creature sitting officially on a parcel marked fragile, arms folded

The round takes twice as long. Every letter is inspected. One parcel is sat upon, in an official capacity. Ume-san's bread coupon is delivered with a small formal bow that leaves her unable to speak for a moment.

The bakery doorstep: four creatures presenting a bread coupon to the flour-cheeked baker with a formal synchronized bow

The baker speechless, one hand to her chest, flour drifting off her cheek

Quiet beat: the postman resting on the shrine steps, four creatures sitting in a row beside him, all watching the street below

At the café, Sato-san hands over the last letter and his empty bag, and accepts his usual bowl. “Good crew today,” he says, deadpan. The crew, back in their row on the counter, pretend not to glow.

Back at the café: the postman handing over the last letter and his empty bag, deadpan, matcha waiting

The four back on the counter pretending not to glow with pride, visibly glowing

Closing frame: the red bicycle leaning by the café door, four tiny chalk bows drawn on its basket