I found an old photo album in a shoebox left beside the garbage bins. There were no names, only a date written in pen on the cover: "Tomorrow."
I thought it was a poetic title, or the name of a band. I took it home and started leafing through it. The photos were sharp, in color, of incredible quality. But something about them was deeply wrong.
The first photo showed me. I was sitting in a café I didn't know, with a steaming cup of coffee. I was wearing a green shirt I had never owned. I was smiling at someone outside the frame. The date in the corner read: February 15, 2026.
Three days from now.
I flipped faster. I saw myself in a park, then at a funeral, weeping in despair before a closed coffin. Then a photo taken in a hospital corridor. In every image I looked thinner, paler, my eyes losing their light.
I reached the last page. There was a single photo, taken in a dark room. The frame was tight on a bed. On the bed lay a shape covered by a white sheet. The only thing sticking out was a hand: my hand, recognizable by a scar on the thumb I've had since childhood.
Under the photo, a handwritten caption: "Space successfully freed."
At that moment I heard the sound of paper tearing. I looked at the first photo, the one in the café. The image was fading. My figure was turning transparent, then white, until nothing remained but the background of the empty café.
I ran to the mirror. My image was there, but when I touched the glass, I felt that my skin was... less solid. I could see the bathroom tiles through the palm of my hand.
The book wasn't predicting the future. It was consuming my days. Every time I looked at a photo, that moment was removed from the timeline to feed something else.
I tried to burn the album, but the flames won't touch it. I tried to throw it away, but it reappears on my nightstand, open to the next page.
Now I'm at the second-to-last photo. It shows me sitting at a computer, writing a message. The caption reads: "The last warning."
I feel the album growing lighter in my hands as I become more and more ethereal. If you're reading this, never touch a book that speaks of tomorrow. The future isn't written, but someone is using it as ink.