Les Metiers - Facteur - lettres - mail - letter - parcel - package - post - CPA TOP
#LesMetiers #MailCarrier #Postman #PostalWorker #Letters #Mail #Letter #Parcel #Package #Post #PostalService #Delivery #MailDelivery #Courier #Shipping #Logistics
#Customs Service Conducted Inspection of #Courier Services in #Munich
#Munich Customs inspected parcel delivery services, including #DHL and #Amazon. The goal of the inspection is the fight against illegal employment and monitoring minimum wage payments. Five proceedings have been initiated so far, with further investigations expected.
#Read More👇👇👇
https://munchen.news/en/munich/customs-service-conducted-inspection-of-courier-services-in-munich/
Munich's transport and logistics industry has once again come under close scrutiny from law enforcement agencies. Following recent large-scale operations in the railway station district in mid-April, the city's Main Customs Office initiated a new wave of inspections.
BRECK: Dead Delivery: Chapter Five
Daily writing prompt What’s the most interesting local custom you’ve encountered? View all responsesBRECK: Dead Delivery
Chapter Five — The Burning of the Ledger
Prompt: What’s the most interesting local custom you’ve encountered? Tags: dailyprompt | Breck | Crestfall | Dead Delivery | Lumenvale | ← Chapter Four
He found the miller’s wife by following the smell of bread.
It came from a narrow side street behind the grain merchant’s yard — not the inn’s bread, which was the practical, dense kind built for travelers, but something lighter and more deliberate, the smell of a person who baked the way some people prayed, with careful hands and full attention. The house was small, stone to the eaves, with a kitchen window cracked despite the cold and a garden that had been put to bed for the season with the particular thoroughness of someone who intended to use it again in spring.
He knocked. Waited.
The woman who opened the door was perhaps thirty-five, with flour on her forearms and the kind of eyes that had been doing hard arithmetic for a long time and had arrived at a sum they didn’t like. She looked at him the way the whole town looked at him — taking his measure, calculating what category of problem he represented — and then she looked past him at the empty street in both directions, and something in her face shifted.
“You’re the courier,” she said.
“Breck.”
She stepped back from the door without exactly inviting him in, which he understood as the invitation it was.
Her name was Sela. She gave him tea he didn’t ask for and sat across the kitchen table with her hands flat on the wood, and she told him about her husband with the directness of a woman who had rehearsed this conversation in her own head so many times that the emotion had worn smooth, like a stone turned over and over in a river until all its sharp edges were gone and only the shape of it remained.
Aldric Moss had been the miller in Crestfall for eleven years. Good work, honest work, the kind that put him at the center of the town’s daily life — grain came to him from every farm within a half-day’s ride and went back out as flour and meal and the particular satisfaction of a thing transformed. He had known everyone. Everyone had known him.
“He started keeping records,” Sela said. Her hands were still on the table. “When the tariffs went up the second time, he started writing things down. What the merchants paid officially. What they paid at the gate.” She paused. “The difference.”
“Where are the records.”
“Gone. They took them when they took him.” Her jaw tightened slightly, the first crack in the smooth surface of her telling. “Along with everything else from his office.”
“Everything else.”
“His ledgers. His correspondence. A deed to a plot of river land his father left him.” Her eyes moved to the window, to the pale morning light on the wet kitchen garden. “All of it.”
Breck turned his cup in his hands. “What happened to him. Specifically.”
“Three men came in the night. Drav and two others.” She said the name the same way the innkeeper had — flat, stripped, the way you said the name of a weather event. “Aldric went with them. He didn’t — ” she stopped. Started again. “He was a reasonable man. He understood that fighting three men in the dark was not reasonable. He told me to stay inside and he went.” She folded her hands together on the table. “I haven’t seen him since.”
The kitchen was very quiet. Outside, a sparrow landed on the garden wall, regarded the dormant beds with apparent disappointment, and left.
“That was fourteen months ago,” Breck said.
“Fourteen months and nine days.”
He nodded once and didn’t say anything else for a moment, because there was nothing useful to say and the space deserved to exist without someone filling it with words that would only make it smaller.
He asked her about the custom because she’d mentioned it while describing Aldric — a detail she’d offered without seeming to realize she’d offered it, the way people dropped the most important information sideways into conversations when they were thinking about something else.
“The burning,” she said. “On the last night of the harvest season.” She looked faintly surprised that he’d caught it. “It’s old. Older than the town, older than the magistrate’s office, older than anyone alive can account for. Every household brings their oldest unpaid debt — a written record, a marker, a tally stick — and they burn it in the square.” She paused. “Not to cancel the debt. Just to — acknowledge it. To say: this is what we owe each other. This is the weight we carry together. And then you burn the record and the debt remains and you all know it, and somehow knowing it together makes it lighter.”
“Aldric liked it,” Breck said. It wasn’t a question.
“He said it was the most honest thing Crestfall did.” Her voice softened for the first time, the arithmetic behind her eyes giving way briefly to something that had existed before the arithmetic had been necessary. “He said that most towns pretended the ledger didn’t exist. That Crestfall at least had the decency to stand around it once a year and look at it together.”
“When’s the last time it happened.”
She met his eyes. “Three years ago. The year before Voss tightened the tariffs the second time.” A beat. “He banned it. Said it was a fire hazard.”
Breck set his cup down on the table. Outside, the second bell was beginning its climb across the Crestfall rooftops — the magistrate’s office would be open, his document waiting, the north road only an hour away in the flat morning light.
He thought about a town that had once stood in a square together and looked at what it owed each other and then burned the paper and kept the knowledge. The particular honesty of that. The particular loss of its absence.
He thought about Aldric Moss, reasonable man, who had kept his own ledger of what was owed and had gone quietly into the dark rather than fight three men he couldn’t beat, because he was the kind of man who understood odds and played them honestly.
He thought about the fact that Drav had been the one to come for him.
“The ledger he kept,” Breck said. “His records of the tariff differences.” He looked at Sela steadily. “He was careful enough to keep them. Was he careful enough to make a copy?”
The kitchen went very still.
Sela looked at him for a long time — the full weight of fourteen months and nine days in her eyes, the arithmetic running fast and complicated behind them, calculating risk and cost and the distance between hope and foolishness with the precision of a woman who had been doing exactly that kind of calculation every single day since her husband walked out the door and didn’t come back.
Then she stood, and went to the hearth, and moved aside a loose stone at the base of the fireback that only revealed itself when you knew exactly where to press.
She handed him a small oilskin packet. It was warm from the stone’s stored heat.
“He was careful,” she said.
Breck walked back through Crestfall with the packet against his chest, inside his shirt, between the satchel strap and his ribs. The morning market was setting up — the same eleven stalls, the same efficient, head-down preparation, no eye contact, no conversation beyond the necessary. The boy from the cooperage step was there again, in a different spot but the same posture, watching the road.
He watched Breck cross the square.
Breck didn’t look at the magistrate’s office as he passed it, though he was aware of it the way he was aware of everything — peripherally, precisely, without turning his head. Fresh mortar. Town seal. A building that had been fed while everything around it went lean.
He went to the inn first, not the magistrate’s office. He ate a proper breakfast, because he didn’t know when the next meal would be, and because you didn’t make clear decisions on an empty stomach. He ate slowly, methodically, the way he did most things, and he read the oilskin packet’s contents twice, and then he folded it back and returned it to its place against his ribs.
Aldric Moss had been thorough. Fourteen months of tariff records, cross-referenced against the official town ledger, with dates and merchant names and amounts in a hand so neat and careful it looked like a man who had known exactly what he was building and had built it to last.
It was not a fire hazard.
It was a case.
Breck settled his cloak across his shoulders, adjusted the satchel strap, checked the bracelet without thinking about it, and stood.
Time to collect his document.
☕ Enjoyed this story? Writing Lumenvale is how I pay my bills. If these stories are worth something to you, a $1 Ko-fi keeps the forge burning — and tells me this world is worth continuing. 👉 Buy Chadwick a coffee
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Anyone in #Sheffield that supports #bikes, sustainable #coffee, and indie #smallbusiness that has a public space with a space to leave flyers and wants to help out two businesses, we have had some printed for our partnership with FERAL EXPRESS who are a #queer owned independent #bicycle cargo #courier collective.
Here's the flyer. Full text is in the alt-text.
DM us if you have a space and I'll drop some off next week.
Feral Express's instagram is https://www.instagram.com/p/DK0VKc1tsPT/
CVE Alert: CVE-2026-7592 - itsourcecode - Courier Management System - https://www.redpacketsecurity.com/cve-alert-cve-2026-7592-itsourcecode-courier-management-system/
#OSINT #ThreatIntel #CyberSecurity #cve-2026-7592 #itsourcecode #courier-management-system
That's frustrating...
Checked several Japanese online stores and all of them have the same issue: no international shipping with Japan Post since they suspended the service for USA. Only expensive services like Fedex and others.
Why!?
CVE Alert: CVE-2026-7077 - itsourcecode - Courier Management System - https://www.redpacketsecurity.com/cve-alert-cve-2026-7077-itsourcecode-courier-management-system/
#OSINT #ThreatIntel #CyberSecurity #cve-2026-7077 #itsourcecode #courier-management-system
CVE Alert: CVE-2026-7076 - itsourcecode - Courier Management System - https://www.redpacketsecurity.com/cve-alert-cve-2026-7076-itsourcecode-courier-management-system/
#OSINT #ThreatIntel #CyberSecurity #cve-2026-7076 #itsourcecode #courier-management-system
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