Mara stared at the letter for hours before opening it. The handwriting was familiar. Looping letters, too careful to be casual. She read the first line:
“I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye.“
Her throat tightened. The rest was an apology, full of words she had wished for years. When she reached the end, a line made her freeze.
“If you’re reading this, I didn’t make it back.“
She looked at the date. It was written two years from now.
Mara turned the envelope over and found a faint smudge: an ink stamp from a post office she’d never heard of. Under it, small words pressed into the paper as if from a ring: Property of the Temporal Relay Service.
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