The rain fell in a steady rhythm, painting the world in muted shades of gray. Emma Lancaster tightened her scarf against the cold drizzle as she stepped into the cluttered estate sale. The warehouse was dimly lit, its aisles lined with furniture, trinkets, and forgotten heirlooms, each piece carrying the weight of a life once lived. The air smelled of damp wood and faded memories, the kind of place that made Emma's imagination spark.
She had no real reason to be there. It was a lazy Saturday, and her friend Claire had canceled their coffee plans at the last minute. With no pressing commitments and a curious heart, Emma had decided to indulge her love for antiques. She wasn't looking for anything in particular, just browsing, letting her fingers trail over aged furniture and dusty books.
"Find anything interesting?" asked a cheerful woman at the front desk as Emma wandered deeper into the sale.
"Not yet," Emma replied with a polite smile, though her mind was already drifting to the far corner of the room, where a faint glow from a lamp revealed something intriguing.
It was a desk—modest yet striking in its craftsmanship. Its legs curved elegantly, and the wood seemed to shimmer under the faint light, even with scratches and dents marring its surface. Intricate carvings adorned its drawers, shapes that resembled symbols or runes Emma didn't recognize.
Drawn to it, Emma crouched down and ran her fingers along the edge. The wood felt smooth, warm, almost alive. It wasn't like the mass-produced desks you'd find in stores today; this one had history etched into its grain.
"You've got a good eye," came a gravelly voice behind her.
Startled, Emma turned to see an older man with a weathered face and a knowing smile. He wore a patched sweater and had the air of someone who'd seen too much to be surprised by anything anymore.
"It's beautiful," Emma said, glancing back at the desk. "Do you know anything about it?"
"Came from an old estate upstate," the man said, leaning on his cane. "Belonged to some scientist or inventor back in the early 1900s. Story goes, he was working on something extraordinary. Time travel, some say."
Emma laughed softly, thinking he was joking. "Time travel? That's quite a claim."
The man shrugged. "People say all kinds of things. All I know is it's been sitting in storage for decades. You're the first person to really look at it."
Emma hesitated. Her apartment wasn't exactly spacious, and she had no need for a desk. Yet something about it called to her. It felt as though it had been waiting for her, its history whispering just beyond her grasp.
"How much?" she asked before she could stop herself.
"Make me an offer," the man said with a grin.
---
By the time Emma left the estate sale, the rain had turned into a full downpour. She hurried back to her apartment, the purchase of the desk weighing heavily on her mind. She'd spent far more than she intended, and she could already hear her friend Claire teasing her about her weakness for old, impractical things.
The movers arrived the next morning, grunting and groaning as they maneuvered the heavy desk up three flights of stairs. Emma directed them to her small living room, where she had cleared a corner for it. Once they left, she stood back to admire her find.
Up close, the desk was even more captivating. The carvings on the drawers seemed almost alive, as though they shifted subtly in the changing light. She opened the drawers one by one, finding them empty save for the faint scent of cedar.
All except the second drawer.
Inside was a single sheet of paper, yellowed with age and folded neatly. Emma's heart skipped a beat as she carefully unfolded it. The handwriting was elegant and precise, written in faded ink that had bled slightly into the paper over time.
To whomever finds this desk, the note began. Know that it is no ordinary piece of furniture. Within its frame lies the anchor to a connection unlike any other. If you are reading this, then perhaps you will find the courage to write back. Simply leave your reply in this drawer, and time will deliver it.
Emma blinked, reading the note again. It sounded like something out of a fantasy novel, a whimsical message left behind by someone with a flair for the dramatic. She chuckled softly, shaking her head. "What kind of prank is this?"
But as she held the note, she couldn't ignore the authenticity of the paper. The texture, the smell—it all felt genuine. And the handwriting had a peculiar charm, as though it belonged to a time long past.
---
That evening, Emma sat in her living room, the desk looming in the corner like a silent guardian. She couldn't stop thinking about the note. Her logical side told her it was nonsense, a playful hoax by a previous owner. Yet her curiosity wouldn't let it go.
She poured herself a glass of wine and stared at the blank sheet of paper she'd set on the desk.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered to herself.
Still, she picked up her pen and began to write.
To whomever wrote this note,
I found your message in the desk. If this is some kind of joke, it's a good one. But if it's real… I suppose I'd like to know more. My name is Emma, and I'd love to hear the story behind this desk and what you meant by 'time will deliver it.'
She paused, considering her words. It felt silly, like writing to an imaginary friend. But there was no harm in humoring the whim, was there?
Emma folded the paper and placed it in the same drawer where she'd found the original note. She hesitated for a moment, her fingers lingering on the wood.
"Here goes nothing," she said softly, closing the drawer with a quiet click.
---
The next morning, Emma awoke to sunlight streaming through her windows. She stretched and yawned, feeling the familiar pull of grogginess as she shuffled into the kitchen to make coffee.
It wasn't until she sat down at the desk, cup in hand, that she remembered the note.
With a faint smile, she pulled open the drawer.
Her coffee sloshed over the rim of her mug as she gasped. The note she had written was gone.
In its place was a new sheet of paper, folded neatly. Emma's hands trembled as she unfolded it, her heart pounding.
Dear Emma, the letter began, the handwriting unfamiliar but elegant. You have no idea how long I've waited for someone to find this desk. My name is Adrian, and I live in the year 2147. If you are reading this, it means the desk has once again linked two times together. I hope this message reaches you as clearly as your own reached me.
Emma stared at the words, her mind racing. This had to be a trick—a prank, or some elaborate setup by the estate sale owner. Yet as she read on, the details in Adrian's letter painted a vivid picture of a world she couldn't imagine: towering cities of glass and steel, technology that blended seamlessly into nature, and a quiet loneliness that came through in his words.
He ended the letter with a question.
Who are you, Emma? And what is your time like?
For a long moment, she sat there, the letter trembling in her hands. The rational part of her wanted to dismiss it, to crumple the paper and forget the whole thing. But another part of her, the part that believed in the magic of old things and hidden stories, wanted to know more.
She reached for her pen.
--