On the first day of June vacation, she discovered a postcard addressed to her from the same beach - dated ten years in the future.
The ink was a shimmering, iridescent blue, smelling faintly of ozone and dried kelp. Maya smoothed the crisp edges with a trembling thumb, staring at the panoramic photo of Whispering Sands Beach on the front. It was identical to the shore outside her window, save for a massive, sleek lighthouse that didn't yet exist.
On the back, the messy handwriting was undeniably her own. The message was brief but urgent: "Don’t dig by the old pier on Tuesday. Some secrets are meant to stay buried. Trust me."
A chill ran down her spine despite the thick, humid summer heat. Looking out at the sunlit Atlantic, she clutched the impossible piece of paper tightly. Her quiet vacation had just turned into a thrilling race against her own future.
