Jem works for a service that delivers last words from the dying to the living. Clients record messages, set conditions, pay fees. Jem travels with a battered satchel of envelopes and encrypted drives. She prefers handwritten notes; they feel honest. One day, she receives a delivery to herself. The envelope is unmarked, but instructions are clear: deliver after sunset to Jem. She waits until dusk, heart pounding, and opens it. Inside is a note in her own handwriting: "Stop running routes. Live." Jem suspects a prank until she recognizes the loop of her L. She does not remember writing it.
Her boss shrugs, says sometimes clients send messages to their future selves. Jem takes a day off for the first time in years. She sits in a park, watches people receive her deliveriesātears, laughter, silence. She realizes she has been ferrying closure for others while denying herself any. She writes a letter to her brother, estranged since their father's funeral, apologizing. She schedules it for delivery to herself tomorrow, forcing her to read her own words aloud. The next day, she cries, then calls him. The company frowns on employees meddling, but Jem decides to change the job. She suggests adding a living messages option: things people should say while they can. Uptake is slow, then steady. Less work for death, more for life. Jem still carries the satchel, lighter now, filled with words that do not wait for funerals. On quiet nights, she rereads the note to herself, making sure she is still listening.
Years later, the company rebrands to Courier of Important Words, dropping "last." Jem becomes a trainer, teaching couriers to deliver empathy with envelopes. She keeps her original satchel hanging by the door, scuffed and retired. Inside rests one unopened letter with no delivery date. She knows it is from future Jem. She is not ready to read it. The restraint feels like a promise to keep living loudly enough that last words can wait.