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The first knock came just as the clock struck twelve.

Three soft raps — tap, tap, tap — steady and patient.



I froze. Midnight visitors weren’t a thing in our neighborhood. The only sounds at that hour were the hum of the refrigerator and the wind scratching at the old wooden shutters. My husband was away on a business trip, and even the dog had started snoring on the couch.



I set my mug of chamomile tea down, my fingers trembling slightly. Another knock echoed through the hallway, more insistent this time. I walked slowly toward the door, each step creaking under my bare feet.



Through the peephole — nothing.

No silhouette. No shadows on the porch.



When I finally opened the door, the night air hit me — cold, sharp, carrying a faint smell of rain. The street was empty, the world utterly still.



Then I saw it: a small cream-colored envelope lying neatly on the doormat. No footprints, no sign of movement, just that envelope — sealed with red wax and my name written across the front.



“Amara Blake.”



My stomach dropped. The handwriting looked familiar — painfully so. I’d seen it before in old journals, letters from my teenage years. But I hadn’t written anything like that in years.



Inside, the paper was thick and slightly yellowed, the ink a deep blue. The date at the top stopped my breath.



October 7, 2045.



Twenty years in the future.



> “Amara,

If you’re reading this, it means I finally found a way to reach back.

Don’t take the 8:15 bus tomorrow. No matter what happens, promise me that.

— A.B.”







I read the letter three times. It was absurd, impossible — yet something about the tone made my skin crawl. It wasn’t a joke. Whoever wrote it knew me.



I barely slept that night, the letter resting on my nightstand like an accusation. I kept telling myself it was a prank, maybe from a friend, maybe even some weird marketing gimmick.



But morning came, and curiosity battled fear. I stood by my front door at 8:10, watching the bus stop through the window. The familiar rumble of the 8:15 bus grew louder — then faded as it disappeared down the street.



Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed.

“Breaking: Bus 47 involved in a major accident. Multiple injured.”



It was the same bus. My bus.



I sat down slowly, staring at the letter. The ink shimmered faintly under the sunlight, as if alive. My chest felt heavy — part terror, part disbelief. If that letter was truly from me… what else did I need to know?



That night, I left every light on. I didn’t want to hear another knock, didn’t want to test fate again. But when the clock hit twelve, it came anyway.



Tap. Tap. Tap.



I hesitated longer this time. When I finally opened the door, no one stood there — only another envelope, identical to the first.



My hands shook as I broke the seal.



> “Amara,

This will be my last letter. You can’t imagine how hard it is to send these through time.

When the lights flicker tonight, don’t be afraid. That’s me — finding you.

Please, live differently this time. Don’t waste years on regret. You already know how that ends.”







My throat tightened. Live differently.

What did that mean? What regret was she talking about?



Then, as if in answer, the house lights flickered — once, twice — before steadying again. I looked around, heart hammering, but the air felt strangely warm, almost comforting.



I sat down on the floor, clutching the letter, tears blurring the words. I thought of everything I’d avoided doing: the art I’d stopped painting, the letters to my estranged sister I never sent, the dreams I’d packed away under “someday.”



Maybe this was my second chance. Maybe my future self had already lived through the mistakes I was still making — and didn’t want me to repeat them.



By dawn, I made a decision. I called my sister. I dusted off my paints. I wrote a list of things I wanted to do now, not “someday.”



And when midnight came again, there was no knock.



Just peace.





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