On a rainy Tuesday, a soaked young woman walks into the café where you work, orders nothing, and asks what year it is. She says she is from three hundred years ahead, and that she has eleven days before the rain stops.
You take a night shift at a 24-hour laundromat, where the outgoing clerk leaves you one strange rule: until the rain stops, the customer at the last machine will answer anything you ask. You never expected the rain to last this long — or the questions to start cutting this close.
Every night you close your flower shop and find a folded note in the last unsold bucket. The handwriting belongs to the driver of the 11:40 bus — the one who always waits a minute longer than he should. You have never spoken. The route is being cancelled at the end of the month.