I have worked at the Central Delivery Hub for five years which is exactly four years eleven months and maybe twenty two days too long.
“Hey, Sam, you still alive over there?” my coworker called.
“Barely,” I muttered, scanning packages and trying not to spill my coffee.
The work is not hard. You sort, you scan, you throw packages onto the right conveyor belt. Except now, in the city of Tomorrow, it is not just parcels we deliver. We deliver letters. Special letters that tell you things you are going to do tomorrow.
I did not believe in them at first.
“You seen the Tomorrow’s Mail today?” asked, Clara, from the next station.
“Nope. Not touching that nonsense,” I said. “People just freak themselves out over small stuff.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’ll see. You will eventually.”
I was running the afternoon route, midweek, tired, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, muttering at my scanner because the thing froze again. And there it was. A letter not addressed to me. Someone named Harper Evans or something. I glanced around. No cameras, no one watching, and curiosity got the better of me. I ripped it open.
“You will find a red scarf at the corner of 5th and Main. Wear it at precisely 10:17 or the bus will miss you,” I read aloud.
Clara peeked over. “You actually reading that?”
“I mean, it’s not mine,” I said. “So… what harm?”
By 10:15 the next morning, scarf in hand. I do not even remember whose it was. I was standing at the corner. And the bus came right on time. I suddenly tripped over the scarf like a total idiot, right in front of the driver.
“Sam! You okay?” a stranger yelled.
“Yeah, yeah. “I’m fine,” I said, as I regained my balance, laughing too quickly, with the scarf smacking around in the wind. I didn’t even notice I missed the bus till the doors closed.
And then the chaos started.
Back at the office, the printer exploded. Not literally. Well, not completely. Sparks, smoke, the kind of thing that makes the fire alarm go off for thirty minutes straight. Everyone’s laptops fried. Including mine. And the tablet I used for delivery scans.
“Sam! Did you touch anyone else’s mail?!” my manager shouted.
“No! Okay. Maybe I did.” I stammered. “It is complicated.”
I panicked. And I mean, full-on heart pounding, sweating through my shirt kind of panic. I decided I had to fix it. The logic was simple. If reading the letter messed with reality, maybe I could read it again, or better, stop someone else from reading theirs. Make it go back to normal.
So, naturally, I stole more letters. Tried to deliver them incorrectly, fold them the wrong way, put the stamps on upside down, just to see what happens. Instead, I made things worse.
Strange events happened, like me getting stuck on the elevator, someone entering the wrong building, missing a flight, and schools going on holiday at the middle of the semester without any explanation.
“Sam, why is Mrs. Aldridge wearing a neon green scarf?” Clara asked.
“I do not know,” I said. “It is Tuesday’s dog’s fault maybe?” I said, nervously.
By 5 PM, my head was spinning. I had created small chaos in at least five districts. My manager asked why delivery times were delayed by hours. I muttered something about a scanner glitch which, technically, was not entirely false.
I went home. I was tired. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I realized maybe the letters were not predictions at all. Maybe they were instructions on how to go about their day. Or suggestions. There’s no sure way to tell.
I did not touch any letters the next day. I just did my route, ignoring the envelopes like they were junk mail.
“Bus on time?” Clara called as I walked in.
“Yep. Printer did not explode. Dogs stayed put. Everything fine,” I said.
"Even Harper Evans is fine. I Googled the name out of curiosity.”
"That’s what happens when you mind your business.”
I realized that curiosity is dangerous. Delivery clerks should mind their own business. Or maybe reality itself is fragile, and tiny decisions ripple across the day in ways no one understands.
Sometimes when I’m scanning a letter, I stare at it longer than I should. My head drifts off to red scarves left on benches, printers breaking down right when you need them most. And I wonder what really happens when you peek at somebody else’s tomorrow.
Then I fold it neatly, stamp it, and send it on its way without looking through what isn’t mine.
“Hey, Sam, leaving so fast?” Clara asked.
“Yeah. Some days messing with the future is just too much work. I’d better get going before curiosity gets the better of me,” I said, smiling.
