Echoes From Tomorrow

A Voice That Shouldn’t Exist

Nina Alvarez was used to the hum of late-night silence in her apartment. The city outside roared with horns and sirens, but inside, her small studio was her cocoon. That’s why, on a Thursday night in March, she froze when she heard her own voice whisper:

“Don’t go to work tomorrow.”

She spun around, convinced her TV had switched itself on. But the screen was dark. The voice had been hers—same pitch, same hesitation—but it came from nowhere.

The First Warning

The next morning, Nina ignored the eerie memory. She chalked it up to fatigue, maybe a dream she confused with reality. But when she arrived at her office, she saw shattered glass at the corner of the building. Police tape wrapped the block. A delivery truck had lost control and smashed straight through the lobby at dawn—exactly where she would have been if she hadn’t taken her time that morning.

Her knees buckled. That voice had saved her.

The Echoes Multiply

Over the next week, the whispers came again. Always in her own voice. Always brief.

“Don’t take the elevator.”

“Wait before crossing.”

“Skip the call.”

Each time, she obeyed—and each time, something terrible nearly happened. The elevator malfunctioned, stranding people between floors. A cyclist was hit in the intersection she avoided. A scammer tried to hack her coworker’s account during the video call she skipped.

The whispers didn’t feel like warnings. They felt like echoes—memories from a tomorrow that hadn’t happened yet.

The Diary of Futures

Nina began writing them down in a small notebook: Echo 1. Echo 2. Echo 3. She tracked every outcome, connecting threads like a detective. The more she wrote, the more the whispers grew confident, as if her future self knew she was listening.

But the notes weren’t always clear. Some were riddles. “Don’t trust the man in blue.” “The key isn’t a key.” The words made sense only hours later, when events unfolded.

The Stranger Who Knew

One night, at a corner café, Nina dropped her notebook. A man at the next table picked it up, his eyes scanning the cryptic messages before she could snatch it back.

“You’re hearing them too,” he said softly.

Her blood ran cold. He introduced himself as Aaron. He explained that the echoes weren’t hallucinations—they were fragments of timelines bleeding through. “We don’t remember yesterday,” he said. “We remember tomorrow.”

Before she could press for details, he added: “But it always ends badly if you listen too long.”

The Breaking Point

Nina tried to ignore the echoes after that, but they grew louder, more urgent. One night, she woke to her own voice screaming: “Don’t trust Aaron!”

Terrified, she searched for him online. No records. No address. Nothing.

Her notebook, however, was gone.

The Tomorrow She Shouldn’t Know

Two days later, a final whisper came: “You won’t survive Friday if you keep listening.”

It was her voice again—frantic, desperate. She wanted to run, to hide, but the words looped in her head. When Friday came, she locked herself inside her apartment, waiting for disaster.

At 11:59 p.m., she sighed in relief. Midnight was seconds away. Maybe she had beaten the warning.

Then came a knock at her door.

She checked the peephole. Aaron stood there, holding her notebook. He smiled.

The Last Echo

Nina never opened the door. But she never made it to Saturday either.

Neighbors reported hearing a scream and the sound of shattering glass. The apartment was empty when police arrived—no body, no struggle, just a notebook open on the floor. The last entry read:

Echo 47: Don’t open the door.

Her handwriting. Dated one day ahead.

And beneath it, in trembling ink:

“Some futures can’t be rewritten.”