The investigators who first studied these cases noticed a troubling overlap. Missing persons often left some record of their final day — a letter unfinished, a shopping list abandoned mid-item, a conversation cut short. The phrase "See you tomorrow" marked the end of many of these fragments, a closing note that carried into silence.
In one police file from 1928, the last words of a missing teacher were written in chalk on a blackboard: "See you tomorrow, class." The students remembered her leaving the room, coat over her arm. She was never seen again. The chalk stayed on the board for weeks, smudging but never erased, until the headmaster himself wiped it clean. He vanished the following year.
Witness statements grew stranger. A factory worker swore his colleague repeated the words in the same tone three times in a single hour, though she had no memory of it. A train conductor testified that passengers, strangers to each other, exchanged the phrase in unison before stepping off at a station from which they never departed.
Detectives tried to dismiss these reports as superstition, the mind's attempt to impose order upon loss. But the pattern held. Wherever the phrase appeared, disappearance followed.
One investigator left a note in the margin of his own report, unsigned:
"I write this only to remind myself. The ones who say it are not reassuring us. They are bidding farewell, but not to us. They are answering something else. Something calling them to tomorrow."
He vanished a week later. His report was found on his desk, the ink of those three words darker than the rest, as though freshly written.