THE GIRL WHO RECEIVED TOMORROW'S LETTERS

Maya Carter used to think the worst thing that could ever happen was losing someone you loved. She knew better now. What really haunted her was the idea that she could’ve stopped it. That feeling never left her alone. It trailed after her on the quiet streets of Bellwood, haunted her all day at school, and was always waiting for her at home. Every afternoon she’d toss her backpack by the couch and feel her eyes drift to that faded photo on the bookshelfher father, her mother, and a nine-year-old Maya in the middle. A family that didn’t exist anymore. Her dad vanished five years ago. The police scoured the town. Neighbors gossiped. Reporters poked around. But, eventually, the noise faded. Everyone else moved on everyone except Maya. She refused to believe her dad just walked away. Too many things never made sense, too many questions left hanging. Plus, there was something her mom used to say before she was gone, too: “Your father didn’t leave us, Maya. He was trying to protect you.” Back then, Maya never really got it. Not until that rainy Monday in October. That morning, she found the envelope lying under the front door. No stamp, no address nothing except MAYA in bold black ink. She picked it up, confused, at first thinking someone was pulling a prank. Or maybe it was a mistake. She flipped it over, and her breath caught. There was a date under the flap: October 14. She glanced at the calendar on the wall. October 13. Tomorrow. Her heart started pounding. She tore the envelope open. Inside was a single sheet of paper. The handwriting was unnervingly tidy. Maya, Tomorrow at 4:17 p.m., the lights at Bellwood Station will go out. When they do, do not enter the underground passage. Someone will be waiting for you there. You have never met this person. But they know your father’s name. Do not trust them. Someone who knows what happens tomorrow She read the letter three times. Then she let out a shaky laugh. Someone had to be messing with her. She folded the letter and shoved it in her bag. By the next afternoon, she’d almost forgotten about it. Almost. Walking home from school, she glanced at her phone: 4:12 p.m. Bellwood Station was five minutes away. She stopped, a cold unease twisting in her stomach. “No,” she whispered, but she kept walking. 4:15. She reached the station. 4:16. People hurried by, trains came and went, everything looked normal. Then the station lights flickered once, twice and at exactly 4:17 p.m., everything went black. The station vanished into darkness. Maya froze. Somewhere near the ticket gates, someone screamed. Emergency lights began to flash. The letter surged back into her mind. Do not enter the underground passage. She turned toward it and spotted a silhouette at the far end: someone standing perfectly still, watching her. Then, slowly, the figure raised a hand and pointed straight at her.