The girl who received a letter from tomorrow

THE GIRL WHO RECEIVED A LETTER FROM TOMORROW

Some messages arrive too early. Others arrive just in time.

By Zyvinne

CHAPTER ONE: THE LETTER WITH NO ADDRESS

At exactly 11:47 p.m., Amara received a letter from a dead woman.

The strange thing was not that the letter had no stamp, no return address, and no name on the envelope.

The strange thing was that the woman who had supposedly written it had been dead for six years.

Amara knew this because the name written on the envelope belonged to her mother.

MRS. IFEOMA OKAFOR.

Her mother had been buried when Amara was thirteen.

Now, at nineteen, Amara stood alone in the tiny sitting room of her aunt's house in Abuja, staring at an envelope that should not have existed.

She turned it over.

Nothing.

No handwriting except her mother's name.

No explanation.

And somehow, the envelope was warm.

Her first instinct was to throw it away.

Her second was to open it.

Curiosity won.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded twice. The handwriting was unmistakable. Amara remembered it from birthday cards, school notes, and the little reminders her mother used to leave beside her breakfast.

Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the paper.

There were only three sentences.

My darling Amara,

Tomorrow, a woman will ask you for something you cannot afford to give.

Give it to her anyway.

Amara read the message again.

Then a third time.

"What kind of joke is this?" she whispered.

She checked the envelope for another note. Nothing.

Her mother had been dead for six years. Nobody could possibly have known that particular handwriting well enough to reproduce it.

Unless somebody had found her mother's old letters.

That was the only reasonable explanation.

Amara placed the paper on the table and took a picture of it with her phone. Then she searched the envelope for clues.

At the bottom, almost invisible against the cream-coloured paper, were four handwritten words.

You have until midnight.

She checked the time.

11:51 p.m.

A chill travelled down her spine.

For the first time that night, Amara considered the possibility that someone was watching her.

She locked the front door.

Checked the windows.

And slept with the letter beneath her pillow.

The next morning, she woke up convinced that exhaustion had made her imagine half the things she remembered.

Then she saw the envelope.

It was still there.

At 8:15 a.m., Amara left for the small bakery where she worked as an apprentice. She had spent months learning how to bake and decorate cakes, hoping that one day she could open a business of her own.

Money was tight, but she had plans.

Big plans.

Plans that required patience, practice, and more money than she currently possessed.

She was thinking about an order she needed to complete when she heard a voice behind her.

"Please, young lady. Can I speak with you?"

Amara turned.

An elderly woman stood beside the bakery entrance. Her clothes were clean but worn, and her face carried the tiredness of someone who had spent too many nights worrying.

"Yes, ma," Amara answered politely.

The woman looked at the cakes displayed behind the glass.

"I need a cake."

Amara smiled. "What size would you like?"

The woman hesitated.

Then she lowered her voice.

"I don't have money to pay you today. But my granddaughter is turning ten, and I promised her a birthday cake."

Amara's smile faded slightly.

The bakery owner had warned her never to give away products without permission. Her own savings were barely enough to cover her transport and a few personal expenses.

She could not afford to buy a cake for a stranger.

"I'm sorry, ma," she began. "I wish I could help, but—"

The woman nodded quickly.

"Don't worry. I understand."

She turned to leave.

And Amara remembered the letter.

A woman will ask you for something you cannot afford to give.

Give it to her anyway.

Her heart started beating faster.

Could this be a coincidence?

Of course it was.

Letters from dead people did not predict the future.

Still, Amara could not stop looking at the woman's retreating figure.

"Ma!"

The woman turned.

Amara swallowed.

"Please, wait."

Twenty minutes later, she had decorated a small cake with white icing and pink flowers. She used ingredients she had saved from her own baking practice and paid for the rest from the little money in her purse.

It was not an expensive cake.

But it was beautiful.

When she handed it over, the elderly woman's eyes filled with tears.

"You don't know what you've done for me," she whispered.

Amara smiled, although a part of her was already calculating how she would replace the money.

The woman held the cake carefully.

Then she looked directly into Amara's eyes.

"Your mother would be proud of you."

Amara froze.

"What did you say?"

The woman seemed surprised by the question.

"Your mother. She raised a kind daughter."

"How do you know my mother?"

But the woman had already turned away.

Amara hurried outside.

The woman was gone.

Not walking down the street.

Not entering a vehicle.

Gone.

Amara searched both directions, but all she saw were people going about their daily business.

She returned to the bakery with cold fingers and a mind full of questions.

That evening, she rushed home.

The letter was waiting on her bed.

She was certain she had left it inside the drawer.

Now there was another sentence written beneath the original message.

You have passed the first test.

Amara stumbled backwards.

"No," she whispered. "No, no, no."

She picked up the paper.

The handwriting was still her mother's.

Beneath the new sentence, another line appeared.

Tomorrow, do not trust the person who calls you family.

Amara stopped breathing for a moment.

Her aunt was the only family member she had left.

Her aunt, who had taken her in after her mother's death.

Her aunt, who paid her school fees when she could and reminded her every day that life was not easy.

Her aunt, who was currently in the kitchen preparing dinner.

Amara stared at the words until they blurred.

Then she heard footsteps approaching her bedroom.

"Amara?"

Her aunt's voice.

"Have you seen the envelope your mother left behind?"

Amara's blood turned cold.

She had never told anyone about the letter.

Not even her aunt.

The door handle began to turn.

And for the first time in six years, Amara heard herself whisper a prayer.

"God, please. What is happening to me?"

The door opened.

Her aunt stood there, holding an envelope identical to the one beneath Amara's trembling fingers.

Except this one had her own name written on it.

MRS. GRACE OKAFOR.

Her aunt looked at Amara.

Then at the letter in her hand.

The colour drained from her face.

"Where did you get that?" she demanded.

Amara stepped backwards.

"Where did YOU get yours?"

For several seconds, neither woman spoke.

Then her aunt closed the door behind her.

And when she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible.

"Your mother wasn't supposed to send you those letters."

Amara felt the room tilt.

"What do you mean?"

Her aunt looked down at the envelope she was holding.

Then she said six words that changed everything Amara thought she knew about her childhood.

"Your mother didn't die six years ago."

Amara stared at her.

"What?"

Her aunt's eyes filled with tears.

"She died eleven years ago, Amara."

Silence swallowed the room.

Eleven years.

Amara had memories of her mother at thirteen. Birthday celebrations. School visits. Conversations in the kitchen.

How could she have remembered a woman who had supposedly died when she was eight?

And why had everyone told her the same story?

Her aunt opened her envelope with shaking hands.

Inside was a photograph.

A little girl stood beside a woman in a blue dress.

Amara recognised the woman immediately.

Her mother.

But the little girl was not Amara.

It was another child.

On the back of the photograph, someone had written a date.

Tomorrow's date.

And beneath it were seven words.

Find the girl before she finds you.

Amara looked up at her aunt.

"Who is that child?"

Her aunt began to cry.

Before she could answer, Amara's phone rang.

An unknown number.

She answered without thinking.

A little girl's voice came through the speaker.

"Hello, Amara."

Amara gripped the phone.

"Who is this?"

The child laughed softly.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

Amara couldn't speak.

The girl continued.

"That's okay. Mummy said you wouldn't."

A pause.

Then, in a voice that sounded frighteningly familiar, the child whispered:

"But tomorrow, you're going to remember everything."

The call ended.

Amara slowly lowered her phone.

Outside, the evening sky darkened over Abuja.

On the table, the letter began to change.

New words appeared beneath the photograph's message.

Midnight is coming.

Choose carefully.

Tomorrow, one of you will disappear.

TO BE CONTINUED...