Whispers Between Pages

I wrote a line in faded ink,

To someone I had yet to be,

A folded thought I couldn’t think,

Buried deep in mystery.

The letter sat inside a drawer,

A secret sealed with trembling hand,

No clue what I was writing for—

No map, no time, no promised land.

But time, it twists in silent ways,

Not straight, not sure, not always seen,

And somehow through the shattered days,

My future self stepped in between.

The note returned, the date was real,

The words were mine, but wiser still,

It knew a wound I’d yet to feel,

It warned of storms I couldn’t will.

A second me, or just a trick?

A glitch inside my tired mind?

But every word, each stroke, each tick—

Matched truths I had not yet defined.

Who dares to say what time allows,

What loops may form, what fates may bend?

If thoughts can echo back somehow,

Then maybe letters never end.

So write, dear soul, and seal with grace,

Hide it deep, then let it rest,

One day it may return to face

The version of you who needs it best.

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This poem was inspired by a real story I uncovered—one that shook me to the core. A woman wrote letters to her future self… and then, impossibly, received one back. If that sounds unbelievable, wait until you read the full story. I turned the investigation into a full book.

Read the full mystery 👉 Here