Mark always checked his mail on Tuesday evenings. Usually, his mailbox contained only bills, pizza delivery menus, and colorful advertisements that went straight into the recycling bin. But this Tuesday was different. Among the junk mail lay a single, glossy postcard.
On the front was a picture of a quiet, sunlit café by a river. Mark did not recognize the place. He turned the card over to read the message. The handwriting looked strangely familiar—slanted, slightly messy, and rushed. He gasped when he read the date at the top: October 24th. Today was only October 17th.
The message was short: “Mark, whatever you do on Thursday morning, do not take the 8:15 train. Walk to work instead. Trust me. You will thank me later. – M.”
Mark stared at the letter "M". His own name was Mark. He examined the postmark. It was stamped with a date from next week.
"This is a joke," Mark muttered to himself. "One of my friends is playing a trick on me."
He put the postcard on his kitchen counter and tried to forget about it. Yet, all through Wednesday, the mysterious warning occupied his mind. Who would go to the trouble of printing a fake postmark? And how did they copy his handwriting so perfectly?
Thursday morning arrived with heavy gray clouds. Mark stood by his front door, holding his keys. He usually took the 8:15 train to get to his office by nine o'clock. Walking would take at least forty minutes, and it looked like it might rain.
He hesitated. If he walked, he would be late. His boss disliked unpunctuality. But if the postcard was real, something terrible might happen on that train.
"I am being ridiculous," Mark said aloud. Still, his hand trembled as he locked the door. Instead of turning left toward the train station, he turned right and began to walk.
Halfway to his office, the sky opened up. Rain poured down, soaking his jacket. Mark regretted his decision. He felt foolish, imagining his friends laughing at their successful prank.
When he finally arrived at the office at 9:15, wet and shivering, the lobby was unusually crowded. People were huddled around the reception desk, whispering.
"Did you hear?" his colleague Sarah asked, running up to him. "The 8:15 train had a major accident. A power line fell onto the tracks. Everyone has been stuck inside the dark carriages for hours. Thank goodness you were late!"
Mark’s heart stopped. He reached into his pocket and touched the wet postcard. It was not a prank.
On Friday evening, Mark sat at his desk. He had bought a postcard from a local shop—one showing a quiet, sunlit café by a river. He picked up a pen and carefully wrote the warning. Tomorrow, he would find a way to send it to the past, knowing that his own life depended on it.
Would you change your plans if you received a message from your future self?