The destination was an abandoned house on the edge of town,
I pulled my scooter up to 44 Elm Street. The house was pitch black, stripped of its windows, with police tape fluttering loosely in the wind. The customer's note had explicitly said: "Leave the package on the front porch, do not knock, and walk away without looking back."
As I stepped onto the creaking wooden porch, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It wasn’t a notification—it was a call from the exact address I was standing at.
My hands shook as I answered. A cold, shaky voice whispered from the speaker right beside my ear:
"You forgot to check the label, Leo. Look at who sent it."
I flicked on my phone's flashlight and shone it down at the small cardboard box. My breath caught in my throat.
It wasn’t addressed to a customer. It was addressed to me.
With trembling fingers, I ripped open the tape. Inside wasn’t merchandise or cash. It was my childhood diary—the one I had buried in my backyard ten years ago after the fire—and a brand new, ticking pocket watch set to exactly 2:02 AM.
Before I could drop the box, the front door behind me slowly clicked open.
A voice echoed from the dark hallway: "You're right on time. We've been waiting for you to come home."