Mira Tanaka woke to the sound of rain tapping softly against her bedroom window. Hazy morning light slanted through the sheer curtains, throwing watery shadows across her cluttered desk—books stacked unevenly, highlighters bleeding into open notebooks, a cup of unfinished tea with tiny flakes of sugar crusting its rim. It was a morning like any other, except for the envelope.
It had been slipped under her door sometime in the night. No postage, no markings, just thick cream-colored paper, slightly yellowed at the corners. Her name was written in thin, spidery cursive:
**Mira Tanaka**
**February 12, 2049**
She frowned. February 12th was tomorrow. And the year—2049? That had to be a mistake. Her eyes drifted to the corner where last night's recycling waited, and for a moment she considered tossing it, unread.
But curiosity, like a cat with one eye open, batted her hand.
She opened the envelope.
Inside: one sentence.
**Wear red tomorrow. He'll notice.**
She stared at it. That was it. No signature, no explanation, just the strange tingle that came from something too specific to be a prank and too gentle to be threatening.
Wear red?
She laughed—quietly, more to herself than anything. Maybe Kanna was pulling one of her moodboard pranks again, trying to get Mira to dress more "like a heroine." Or maybe this was part of that literature club campaign: anonymous compliments and feel-good riddles left for unsuspecting students.
Still... she kept the letter. Folded it neatly and slid it between the pages of her journal.
---
At noon, the clouds broke just enough for sunlight to filter through. Mira dressed in her usual gray skirt, navy coat, and tights. As she reached for her bag, her fingers brushed against the red scarf folded in the corner of her drawer. Hand-knit. Faded. A childhood relic.
She hesitated.
Then wrapped it around her neck.
---
The bus was late. Again.
Mira stood at the stop, shoulder to shoulder with a sea of commuters. Her breath fogged the air, trailing behind her like a ghost with nowhere to go. She tugged her scarf higher, tucking her chin beneath its warmth.
A man to her left sneezed into the cold. A child further down kept tugging at her mother's coat. A woman answered a call with a clipped "I told you I already submitted the report—"
The bus pulled up with a groan.
The shuffle began.
Mira boarded, found a pole to cling to, and started counting the stops in her head like usual. It helped pass the time.
Three... four... five—
Someone tapped her shoulder.
"Hey," came a soft voice. "You can sit here, if you'd like."
She turned. A boy—no, a young man—probably around her age, stood up and offered his seat. Tousled hair, tired eyes, polite smile. He gestured once more, hand open.
Mira blinked. "Oh, um... thank you."
As she sat, her scarf pooled in her lap like spilled ink. The boy smiled again and looked out the window, saying nothing.
She watched him for a moment. He wasn't someone she recognized from class. Maybe from campus cafés? Or the library? There was something gentle in his demeanor, like he carried quiet stories he never told aloud.
The stop came. He nodded once to her and stepped off.
She didn't even get his name.
---
Later, at the university library, Mira sat at a long wooden table, absently tracing the edge of her notebook. Her mind wasn't on her literature paper, nor on the three deadlines looming over her week like circling hawks.
She was still thinking about the letter.
And the scarf.
And the boy.
And how she hadn't worn that scarf in two years—not since her father passed. It used to be his gift, crimson wool dyed by hand during a family trip to Kyoto. Since then, she'd avoided red. Too loud. Too nostalgic.
Until today.
She opened her bag slowly and pulled out the letter again. The handwriting seemed older, elegant, not quite calligraphic, but practiced. The kind of script that felt like it belonged in another decade.
She turned it over. Still blank on the other side.
With a sigh, she tucked it into her journal once more. Just a coincidence. Probably. Possibly.
Unless...
What if it wasn't?
---
Back in her apartment that night, Mira microwaved leftover curry and stared at her ceiling from the couch. Raindrops had returned, dancing across the window in dizzy spirals.
She reached for her journal and opened to the page where she had pressed the letter.
Beside it, she wrote a single line:
**Letter 1 – Arrived Feb 11, 2024. Said to wear red. Did it. Boy offered me a seat. Not sure why that felt important.**
She paused, then underlined the word *important.*
Was she imagining things?
Or was this the beginning of something?