He pulled the lever one last time, eyes closed. When he looked down, the stamp was different. It wasn’t red ink anymore; it was a shimmering, metallic blue. The date was June 14, 2048.

Arthur felt a chill. He grabbed a fresh stack of mail and began feeding the machine frantically. Each stamp jumped through time—1963, 1941, 1910. He realized he wasn't just buying a postage meter; he had purchased a chronological ledger.

"Why buy a postage meter, Arthur?" his daughter had asked. "You don't even send Christmas cards." "It’s about the mechanics," he’d muttered. "Precision."

He’d bought it from a liquidated law firm for fifty bucks. It was a heavy, industrial beast of a machine, painted in a shade of gray that screamed "bureaucracy, circa 1974."