In 1998, the Maplewood Mall in Youngstown, Ohio, was officially closed. The anchor stores had left. The shops had boarded up. The food court had served its last meal. But the security cameras kept catching movement in the corridors at night. A woman in a retail uniform, walking the same route every hour, checking the same locked doors. Her name tag read "WENDY." She'd been Assistant Manager of the Forever Yours greeting card store. And she was still on the clock. Wendy had worked at Forever Yours for twelve years. She was a model employee. Never late. Never sick. Never took a vacation. She knew every customer's name, every anniversary, every birthday. She kept a notebook in her apron pocket filled with dates and details. She helped customers pick the perfect card for every occasion. She never missed a single one. When the mall announced its closure in October 1998, every store prepared to shut down. Every store except Forever Yours. Wendy refused to accept it. She came to work the day after the closure, unlocked the gate, and stood behind the counter in her pressed uniform. The security guard told her to leave. She smiled and said, "I can't. My customers need their cards. Mrs. Patterson's anniversary is next week. Mr. Chen's daughter is graduating. I ordered special cards for both of them. They'll be here any day." The guard thought she was joking. She wasn't. She stayed. Days turned into weeks. The mall was locked, but Wendy somehow remained inside. Security would find her walking the corridors, checking the mail slot at the abandoned post office kiosk, straightening displays that no longer existed. Her uniform stayed perfectly pressed. Her smile never faded. But her eyes grew hollow. Her skin grew pale. She was becoming something else. Something permanent. A former coworker named Denise broke into the mall one night to check on Wendy. She found her in the Forever Yours stockroom, surrounded by greeting cards. Thousands of them. Birthday cards. Anniversary cards. Sympathy cards. Graduation cards. Each one was addressed, stamped, and dated. But the dates were all future dates. Years in the future. Decades. "I'm preparing for my customers' futures," Wendy explained. "Mrs. Patterson's daughter will graduate in 2007. I found her photo in the yearbook. She'll need a card. Mr. Chen's son will get married in 2012. I saw the engagement announcement in the newspaper. I'm ready for all of it." Denise backed away slowly. She noticed that Wendy's notebook had expanded. It was now dozens of notebooks, stacked floor to ceiling, filled with personal details about every customer she'd ever served. Their children's names. Their grandchildren's birthdays. Their deaths, pre-written in sympathy cards waiting to be mailed. Wendy had been documenting the entire community's emotional milestones for years. And she wasn't going to stop, even if the mall was dead, even if the store was gone, even if she herself was no longer quite alive. The mall was demolished in 2003. The Forever Yours stockroom was found intact, filled with cards dated through 2067. Some were already addressed to children who hadn't been born yet. Some were addressed to people who had died, their sympathy cards written years before their actual deaths. The notebooks were never found. Neither was Wendy. But every year, on major holidays and anniversaries, residents of Youngstown report finding greeting cards on their doorsteps. Cards from a store that doesn't exist. Cards signed with a single letter: W. If you ever receive a card that seems to know too much about your future, do not open it. Wendy is still watching. Still tracking. Still serving her customers.