Private collectors uncovered another unsettling phenomenon: bundles of letters, unstamped, unsigned, arriving in locked drawers, desk compartments, or even wedged inside books centuries older than the paper itself. Each ended the same way.
Recipients described dread upon reading them. The letters contained no threats, no instructions — only fragments of conversations, as though mid-correspondence. Always closing with: "See you tomorrow."
Some letters appeared to answer others, though written in different hands, across decades. Scholars pieced them together into broken dialogues that crossed centuries. Who wrote them, and who received them, remained unclear.
A collector in Vienna, examining one such bundle, confessed to hearing his own name whispered as he unfolded the page. His final diary entry reads:
"The letter is not for me, yet it speaks to me. It does not invite, it insists. I will go where it sends me. Tomorrow is not the day. Tomorrow is the place."
He was gone the next morning. His housekeeper found the final letter still clutched in his hand. The ink was darker than the rest, as if freshly written.