In her grandmother's attic, Sienna discovers a skylight that opens not to the sky but to a specific year: 1998. Through the glass, she sees her younger self drawing on the driveway, her grandmother hanging laundry. The skylight opens for fifteen minutes each day. Sienna experiments, dropping notes through. Her younger self finds them, believing them magic. The notes are simple—"You are loved," "Hide the spare key under the third brick." Sienna resists bigger interventions. Then she learns her grandmother will have a stroke that year. She considers warning her.
The skylight hums with possibility. Sienna writes: "Drink more water. See a doctor." Her younger self delivers it to Grandma, who laughs, then schedules a checkup. The stroke is milder, recovery quicker. Sienna feels relief and guilt. She wonders what else to change. The skylight dims when she tries to send stock tips, refusing greed. It seems to allow only acts of care. Over time, Sienna and her younger self trade jokes, drawings, recipes. When the skylight's magic fades, Sienna installs an actual skylight, honoring the hole in time with real light. She keeps old notes in a box labeled "Past Due," a reminder that some connections can reach back, but most love must be delivered in the present. On rainy days, she sits under the new glass, reading those notes aloud, letting them fall onto her own kitchen table as if time still had a slot for mail.
Years later, Sienna's daughter finds the note box and the new skylight. Sienna tells her the story. The daughter asks if she can send a note back. Sienna shrugs, writes one anyway: "Dear Mom in 1998, the cookies were perfect." She slides it under the skylight. Nothing happens, but that night Sienna dreams of her younger self smiling, cookies in hand. Maybe timelines listen even when portals close.