A Letter From Tomorrow
They sat in silence for a while—him and the girl—beside the door that didn't open.
The air had grown still again. The shadows from the stairwell above now bent downward, like time itself was leaning over to listen.
He stood, restless.
There was a table now.
A plain wooden thing.
He didn't remember it being there.
On the table was a letter.
No envelope. Just a folded page.
His name wasn't written on it.
There was no name at all.
But it was his handwriting.
He unfolded it slowly.
His fingers shook.
The ink was still drying.
It read:
If you're reading this, then the memory didn't hold.
That's okay. It was never meant to.
You're near the door now. Don't open it until you know what's buried.
The girl can't tell you. She doesn't remember either.
You left it under the swing. The one with the tree. You knew you'd forget. You were right.
You were always right to be afraid of that room.
But you went back anyway.
Because you're not supposed to leave it buried.
Not this time.
—You
He stared at the last line.
Not signed.
Not dated.
Just:
—You
He looked up.
The girl was watching him now, her expression unreadable.
"What room?" he asked.
But she only whispered:
"You really don't remember?"
He didn't answer.
Because he didn't.
But something was waking up now. A pull behind his ribs. A thread leading back somewhere. Not a memory, but a weight.
A buried gravity.
He folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket.
And for the first time since he arrived in this place—
He knew where to go next.