The Message That Shouldn’t Have Arrived
I. The Envelope Wasn’t There Yesterday
I’ve lived alone in Flat 3B for fourteen years, undisturbed by time, lovers, or change. My habits were as regular as the ticking of my antique clock—tea at five, soft classical music by six, lights off by ten. My only companion: silence.
That morning, the envelope was there on the doormat. Cream-colored, thick, hand-addressed in curling black ink. My name—Mr. Alaric Finch—written in a hand I hadn’t seen since she left.
I stood motionless, like the letter had claws. No stamp. No sender.
And no one, no one at all, should know I lived here. Not anymore.
II. It Was Her Handwriting
The last time I saw Evelyn was in 2009. She was crying in the train window, and I was too proud to follow. We had both said things that couldn’t be unsaid. Some breakages are not loud—they hum in the background of your life forever.
But this envelope—it was her. The way she made a capital F look like a treble clef. The loop in the r. The tilt. Muscle memory doesn’t lie.
I tore it open with shaking fingers. Inside was a single card:
I’m sorry. I never stopped loving you. I’m at the place where we first kissed. Please come before sunset. — E.
The card smelled faintly of rosemary.
But Evelyn had died in 2017.
III. The Impossible Search
I don’t believe in ghosts. I believe in misdelivered mail and nostalgia. But something about the message gnawed at me—not like a lie, but like a truth you aren’t ready for.
I checked the cemetery. Her name was still etched on the marble, crisp and final. But the rosemary bush beside her grave was blooming, though it was not in season.
I held the card against it. A bee landed on the edge.
Sunset.
The place where we first kissed.
I knew where it was. But that place had been demolished in 2013.
IV. A Corner of Time
Still, I went.
The café was now a concrete skeleton, half a parking lot, half a ghost. But where the corner booth used to be, I saw her.
Wearing the red beret.
The same damn red beret I bought her in 2006 in Paris when we were stupid and immortal.
She didn’t look like a ghost. She didn’t shimmer or float. She looked like Evelyn. A little older than I remember. But warm, real. Breathing.
I didn’t walk. I ran. I didn’t speak. I fell into the seat across from her.
“I thought you were dead.”
“I was,” she said.
V. The Pause Between Heartbeats
“I don’t have long,” she said. “Time isn’t what you think it is, Alaric.”
I wanted to touch her hand, but it felt like trying to hold onto a breeze.
“You died.”
“I slipped. But not completely. There are places—creases in time. Folds in the page. Sometimes a person lands between the lines.”
I laughed, unsure if I was awake.
“I broke everything,” I whispered.
She smiled. “We both did. But some letters find their way back. Even if they travel through years. Or... beyond.”
VI. The Second Envelope
She looked at the sun like it was a clock ticking down.
“I sent one last message,” she said. “One final thing that can fix it all. But it won’t reach you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll think you imagined this. You’ll go home. You’ll doubt. You always do.”
“Then don’t leave,” I begged.
She stood. “Read it. Believe it.”
I blinked.
And she was gone.
VII. The Door Was Locked From the Inside
I returned home. Sat. Poured tea I didn’t drink.
Then I saw it.
Another envelope.
No knock. No footsteps. Just... there.
Inside:
It’s not too late to be who you were meant to be. But you must choose the life that could have been. Midnight. Be ready. One chance only.
— E.
I didn’t sleep. I packed nothing. At 11:59, my clock stopped ticking.
There was a knock.
A tall man in a grey coat stood in the hall. No expression. Just said, “You’re expected.”
VIII. The Train That Shouldn’t Exist
The platform wasn’t listed. Platform 0, it read. The train was black, quiet, almost respectful. I boarded.
Inside were others. Quiet. Some crying. Some smiling. One man in uniform saluted no one. A woman clutched a picture of a child.
No one spoke.
But we were all going... back.
To some version of life where a different choice had bloomed instead of withered.
IX. The Choice
“Where do you want to go?” the conductor asked, pen hovering.
“Back to her.”
“To when?”
“The night before I let her go.”
He nodded. “No promises. Only opportunities.”
I stepped off the train into memory.
X. The Message I Wrote Myself
I stood outside her apartment. Young again. Nervous again. But not stupid this time.
I slipped a letter under her door:
Don’t walk away tomorrow. Let me mess up and fix it. Let me grow beside you. Let’s become old badly, beautifully. Let’s forget pride and make tea at five and argue about music until we’re dust. I love you.
— A. (From later.)
Then I knocked.
XI. This Version
In this version, she opens the door.
In this version, we get it right.
In this version, the message arrived in time.
And everything changed.
[The End—but only of this version.]
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