When I got home, there was a yellow sticky note on my door. No name, no sender, just five words: “Check under the floorboards. Now.”

I should have ignored it. Probably some prank. But something in me—curiosity, paranoia—made me pull up the loose floorboard in my living room.

There was a small box inside. Inside the box? A stack of letters, all addressed to me... but written decades before I was even born.

And then I saw the last letter. It was dated tomorrow.