On a Tuesday morning, the postman delivered letters that were never meant for us. Each envelope, crisp and untouched by time's decay, whispered secrets of lives unlived. Jane opened the first one, expecting bills, but found a farewell note dated years into the future.
"We should write back," she mused, her voice barely a ripple in the still air. But her words seemed to echo, as if resonating in a space not commonly explored.
He, a faceless figure on the street corner, wore a coat too large for his frame. The sleeves swallowed his hands, and he looked down often, as if avoiding invisible eyes. He was not there, yet his shadow stretched parallel to ours.
At the café, the barista served coffee with a side of déjà vu. Each sip felt like a memory borrowed from elsewhere, somewhere just out of reach. The pattern on the saucer mimicked a galaxy, spiraling into itself.