My nephew Arlo’s the kind of kid who makes you feel like you should be doing more with your life. He’s seven, eats celery like it’s candy, and spends his Saturdays cleaning the shoreline because, in his words, “turtles don’t have thumbs.”
He started this routine last summer—same stretch of sand, same green boots, same oversized bucket. We’d watch the sunset while he filled it with bottle caps, soggy chip bags, the occasional sandal with no partner.

But last weekend, he came running up with wide eyes and something clenched tight in his fist.
“I found a phone,” he said.

I figured it was waterlogged junk. But he handed me a sealed, vacuum-packed plastic pouch. Inside was an old flip phone—like, early-2000s old. No SIM card. No scratches.

And taped to the back was a folded napkin.

No one could ever accuse me of being a paranoid type, but something about the way Arlo had found it—buried under seaweed, sealed perfectly, with no sand inside—just gave me that feeling. You know, like stepping into a cold patch in a warm room. It didn’t feel like trash. It felt planted.

Arlo asked if we could open it, and I told him sure, but later. I didn’t want to spook him, so I tucked it in my backpack and we kept cleaning. He found a bottle with a ladybug sticker and got distracted.

Later that night, after he went home with my sister, I sat at the kitchen table and peeled the napkin off the phone. It was yellowed and creased, but the writing was neat. Blocky letters. Blue ink.

“If this rings, answer. If it doesn’t, destroy it. You don’t know me, and you shouldn’t.”

I laughed out loud. Like, an actual chuckle. It sounded like some teenager’s idea of a spy movie.
Still, I flipped the phone open. The battery bar was full.

No one’s battery from twenty years ago should still be full. And the date? It read: July 17, 2037.

That was twelve years in the future.

I dropped it on the table. My dog barked. I swore at the phone, like it had offended me personally.

The thing didn’t make a sound for three days. I told myself I was being dumb and maybe it was just broken, or someone had reset the date for fun. Then it rang.

Loud. Old-school ringtone, that synthetic jingle that used to play on flip phones. I froze.

It rang once. Then again.

Against every reasonable thought in my head, I flipped it open.

“Hello?”

There was silence. Then a voice, calm and flat.

“Don’t bring it back to the beach. Please. Just listen.”