The next letter arrived on a Thursday morning, slipped beneath her dorm door just like the first. Mira discovered it after returning from an early poetry lecture, still half-lost in a discussion about Rilke's angels and longing. She spotted the envelope lying silently against the hardwood, edges curled like it had been there for hours. Same faded cream paper. Same thin black ink. No return address.
She opened it slowly.
**February 14, 2049**
**"Avoid the second café on your right."**
That was it.
She stared at it, more amused than unsettled this time. So now the mysterious future-letter-sender was also a barista critic?
She set the envelope on her nightstand and changed into something warmer—gray cardigan, jeans, her favorite book-shaped tote. Her red scarf from the day before still hung on the coat rack, a sliver of color in her muted room.
She hesitated.
Then, with the sort of impulsiveness that felt vaguely rebellious, she wore it again.
---
It was still early enough in the afternoon that the street wasn't crowded. Students milled in clumps, some with coffee cups in hand, others dragging scooters or oversized bags like they were preparing for battle with their syllabi.
Mira walked quietly through the downtown stretch just off campus. It was her usual route to the library—quiet, lined with bookstores and cafes, soft jazz spilling out from speakers hidden in ivy-covered doorways. The second café on her right would be a place called **Café Luca**, known for its cherry blossom-themed drinks and obnoxiously pastel interiors.
Mira liked their tea, but...
*Avoid the second café on your right.*
She slowed near the front steps. Through the window, she could see two girls laughing over pink lattes. A waiter dropped a spoon, and porcelain shattered near their feet.
Across the street stood **Café Andante**—her usual haunt. Wooden paneling. Old lamps. Smelled like cinnamon and roasted stories.
She crossed the street.
---
The bell above the door jingled gently as Mira entered. Warmth rushed to meet her—along with the scent of espresso and baked sugar. The counter was manned, unsurprisingly, by Riku.
He wore a patterned shirt beneath his apron today—stars and suns tumbling over navy blue—and he was humming something classical while attempting to balance three saucers in one hand.
"Whoa," he said, looking up. "Red scarf, again? Someone's in a romantic mood."
"Just cold," Mira replied dryly.
He grinned. "Could be both."
She shook her head, suppressing a smile, and settled into her favorite window seat.
---
By 3:17 PM, the café had begun to fill. Mira sipped her tea slowly, journal open but untouched. Instead, she watched the street beyond the window, where sunlight was just beginning to dim at the edges.
And then it happened.
On the sidewalk outside **Café Luca**, a man stumbled backward out the door. A sharp voice followed—accusatory. A woman clutched at her coat, shaking her head. Passersby slowed. Something had clearly gone wrong.
Mira stiffened.
A second later, a cup fell. Shattered.
She knew that sound. Hadn't she just heard—?
The two girls from earlier left the café abruptly, their laughter gone. One of them turned back, confused and pale, before disappearing down the block.
Mira felt cold all of a sudden, despite her tea.
What had she just avoided?
---
Riku slid into the chair opposite her with a small plate of complimentary cinnamon rolls.
"You okay?" he asked, nodding toward the window.
Mira hesitated. "Yeah. Just… weird timing, I guess."
He tilted his head. "You ever feel like... time isn't linear? Like maybe it loops sometimes. Or stutters."
She blinked. "That's a strangely specific thing to say."
He smirked. "Philosophy major dropout. Also, I once dreamt a customer would spill coffee on me the next morning. It happened."
"I'm pretty sure that was intuition."
"Or time jazz."
She laughed.
But her hand instinctively reached for her bag—and the letter tucked inside. Still there. Still silent.
Still one step ahead.
---