The second note was a surprise.

The first letter was a delight, of course, the best possible gift for your 11th birthday. It told you of your purpose, and set out in detail how you had built – would build – the time machine. It told you step-by-step how you would stop – had stopped – your grandfather all those years ago, with subtle redirection to make him the kind man you cried over when he died. You were just 10, and it seemed that everything changed, and here it was changing again at 11.

It gave you a chance to meet him again, eventually, after all that study and experimentation changed you too. You became his friend, maybe the only one, and little by little you helped him avoid the horrors that the letter warned you about.

So that one last day when you left him and wrote the letter to yourself, you didn’t expect to find another letter waiting. You copied it – will copy it – word for word just as you had the first, starting: “The second note was a surprise…”

And in the end, you understood – I hope you understand – what it was telling you. The purpose is done, but not gone. You can be proud of who you are – who we had to be. Now you are yourself. After this one last task, you’re free. Go on.