On his first morning of retirement, Edwin Marsh swept the old Hollowbrook post office one last time. Behind a coat rack he found a brass mail slot in a wall that never had one. The little plate read TOMORROW'S DEPARTURES. As a joke, he scribbled a grocery list and fed it in. By noon, the milk he'd written down sat on his porch, in a glass bottle stamped with tomorrow's date.

Edwin decided the slot was a trick, maybe a prank from the new postmaster. He marched next door to ask his neighbor Rosa if she'd seen anyone sneaking around his porch that morning.

Rosa laughed at first, then went pale when Edwin showed her the milk bottle stamped with tomorrow's date. 'My grandmother told stories about that slot,' she whispered. 'She said it only opens for someone who's about to need it.' Edwin asked what she meant.

Rosa warned that the slot always asked for something back. 'Grandma got her medicine,' she said, 'but she forgot the whole next week. Gone, like it never happened.' Edwin swallowed hard, suddenly unsure he wanted to use the slot again at all.

Edwin decided some prices were too high. He found a brick, slid the warning note back inside, and bricked the slot shut for good. The milk bottle stayed on his shelf as the only proof. He kept his memories, his quiet mornings, and his ordinary tomorrows.