He had never been good at horse riding. That was why Owen preferred delivering mail by bicycle, even when the mountain roads turned to mud. The only address he couldn't reach by land belonged to an island no map acknowledged. Once each month, an envelope appeared in the post office with no stamp and no sender. Deliver to Blackwater. Everyone else refused. Owen borrowed the old ferry instead. The island was smaller than he'd imagined. Just a lighthouse and a single stone cottage. An elderly woman answered the door. "I've been expecting you." She accepted the envelope but didn't open it. Instead, she handed him another. "For next month." "Who writes these?" She smiled. "The same person who always has." "But that's impossible." "Only if you believe time travels one way." Before he could ask another question, she ushered him back toward the dock. The return journey felt strangely shorter. Smoke rose from chimneys that hadn't existed that morning. Children ran along the pier shouting words he couldn't understand. The postmaster stared at Owen in disbelief. "Where have you been?" "The island." "You've been gone twenty years." Owen laughed. No one else did. He unfolded the envelope he'd been given. The handwriting was unmistakably his own. By the time the boat returned, everyone on shore had learned a new language.