The first letter arrived in spring, tucked between his electric bill and a coupon flyer. Handwritten on thick parchment, it bore no return address, only his name, scrawled in calligraphy like the cover of a Bible.

“Lo, I say unto thee, walk not beneath the bridge this Tuesday, for the rains shall loosen the stones, and sorrow shall follow.”

He laughed and tossed it into the recycling bin. That Tuesday, a man was killed by falling masonry two blocks from his apartment. A name like his, too.

The second letter came a week later, folded with care and sealed with wax. This one warned against lending money to a woman named Clarisse. He’d just matched with her online that morning. He never replied to her message.

More letters came. Each read like scripture with verses wrapped around his daily life like prophecy. He followed them at first with skepticism, then with reverence. He quit his job after a passage likened his cubicle to a tomb. He moved apartments after a verse described his ceiling fan as “the spinning blade of death.”

His friends thought he was unraveling, but he no longer listened. He was no longer living his life, he was living based on the letters.

The final message came on a Thursday. It was shorter than the others.

“And lo, thou hast obeyed well. Now rest. For the scribe shall cease his writing, and the page shall be turned.”

He folded it neatly. Then he sat by the window, waiting for whatever came next.

The End