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's hands shook, but he grinned. He grabbed a pen and wrote a careful request: 'Tomorrow's newspaper, please.' He folded it and slid it into the brass slot. Then he sat by the window to wait, watching the empty road.

No paper came. Instead, a blank page slid out of the slot with three words in fresh ink: 'STOP READING TOMORROW.' Edwin frowned. Was the slot warning him, or threatening him? He grabbed his pen to write back and ask.

Edwin wrote 'Why?' and fed it in. The reply came fast: 'Because tomorrow you read your own bad news. Live today first.' Edwin slowly set the paper down, made himself coffee, and decided that for once he would just enjoy the morning.