“You’ve got mail,” my neighbour said, lingering beside the community mailbox.
“Thanks.”
“Maybe it’s from your boyfriend. How long since he skedaddled? Six months?”
“Blunt as always, I see.”
She shrugged and gathered her mail. I waited until she was gone before opening my box.
Inside was a postcard, stained with brown smears. Instinctively, I recoiled… and then realised it wasn’t what I’d first thought.
It was worse.
Turning over the bloodied postcard, I noted the postmark—almost a hundred years old—and the timeworn quality of the cardstock. Scrawled in wobbly script were the words:
Time machine worked. Sorry.
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