It started during lockdown. She’d run outside every Thursday morning to wave at the sanitation truck. The guy—Miguel—would honk and wave back. Eventually they started exchanging drawings, high-fives, candy canes at Christmas. Now it’s a full-on routine. A hug, a silly selfie, and one joke apiece. She looks forward to it more than birthdays.

But last week, she came home confused. Not scared. Just off.

I asked her what happened.

She said Miguel told her, “See you yesterday,” like it was totally normal.

I laughed and said, “You mean see you next week?”

She shook her head. “No. He said yesterday. Twice. And then asked if I liked the sticker he left me.”

“What sticker?”

She pulled one out of her pocket.

It was already peeled.

Neon green. Her name handwritten across it.

But here’s the strange thing: the handwriting was unmistakably mine.

I froze. My niece, only nine years old, didn’t notice the way my breath caught. She just twirled the sticker between her fingers, giggling. “Isn’t it funny? Like time travel.”

I forced a smile, but inside, my stomach twisted. I hadn’t written her name on anything recently. Not like that. And the way the letters curled, the way the “a” slanted—it was exactly how I write. Nobody else I know makes their letters that way.

That night, after she went to bed, I sat at the kitchen table with the sticker in front of me. I tried to brush it off as coincidence. Maybe Miguel found something I’d written and copied it. Maybe he was just being playful. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t that simple.

The following Thursday, I decided to stand outside with her. Normally, I let her go alone, since the ritual felt like hers. But this time, I leaned against the porch railing as the truck rumbled down the street.

Miguel hopped out of the cab, cheerful as ever. He waved big, gave my niece a hug, and pulled a shiny red lollipop from his pocket. Then, almost like he’d been expecting me, he looked right at me and said, “You’re late today.”

Late.

I frowned. “We’re always here at the same time,” I said.

He tilted his head, smiling in that easy way of his. “No, yesterday you were right on time. Today you’re late.”

My niece laughed, thinking it was just another one of their silly jokes. But the hairs on my arms stood up.

After he left, she was buzzing with joy, talking about how Miguel made up funny time jokes now. I just nodded, but I couldn’t shake the feeling he wasn’t joking.

That weekend, curiosity got the better of me. I asked around the neighborhood about Miguel. People said he’d been on the sanitation route for years. Everyone liked him. A couple even said he went above and beyond—helped shovel driveways in winter, carried heavy cans for elderly folks, sometimes even fixed broken bins without asking.

But then Mr. Callahan, who lives two streets over, lowered his voice and said something odd. “Miguel’s a good man. But there’s something strange about him. My daughter swears he told her he remembered things she hadn’t even done yet. Little things. Like the color of the sweater she was going to wear the next day. We laughed it off. Maybe he just guessed. But sometimes… I wonder.”

That stuck with me.

The next Thursday, I came prepared. I tucked a folded note into my pocket with a single sentence written in my handwriting: “What did I forget yesterday?” I figured if Miguel really was playing with time—or memory—he’d know what it meant.

When the truck arrived, I let my niece run ahead. She hugged him, snapped their usual selfie, and then I stepped forward. I handed him the note quietly, without a word.

He looked at it, smiled faintly, and tucked it into his vest pocket. “Don’t worry,” he said softly, almost like only I was meant to hear. “You’ll remember tomorrow.”

That was it. No explanation. He climbed back into the truck and was gone.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept replaying his words. “You’ll remember tomorrow.” It didn’t make sense.

But then, the next morning, as I was making coffee, a memory hit me—sharp and sudden, like a film reel snapping into place. I remembered being at the rodeo with my husband years ago, helping an elderly woman who couldn’t climb the stairs. I remembered Thomas carrying her, remembered her daughter crying with gratitude.

The memory wasn’t new—it had happened. But the way it surfaced, unprompted, tied directly to what Miguel had said. It was as if he’d flipped a switch inside me.

The following week, I confronted him. After my niece took her selfie, I stepped forward and asked, “How do you know these things? Why do you keep saying yesterday instead of tomorrow?”

He looked tired then, for the first time. His smile faded. “Because I live the days twice,” he said simply. “Once like everyone else, and once in reverse. It’s a gift. Or maybe a curse. I never know which.”

I stared at him, unsure if he was joking, delusional, or telling the truth. But his eyes—calm, steady, almost sad—told me he believed every word.

Over the next few months, Miguel and I developed a quiet understanding. My niece still had her routine with him—selfies, candy, silly jokes. But sometimes, when she ran inside, he’d lean closer to me and say things that made my skin crawl.

“You’ll lose your keys yesterday. Check the sofa.”

“You already burned the toast tomorrow morning. Try again.”

Each time, he was right.

It wasn’t dangerous or sinister. It was small things. Mundane things. But it made me realize Miguel really did experience time differently.

One afternoon, I asked him the question that had been gnawing at me. “Why my niece? Why do you connect with her like this?”

He smiled again, but softer. “Because she reminds me of my sister. I lost her years ago. And when I live days backward, I see her laugh again. Your niece has the same light. I don’t want her to lose it.”

That was the twist I hadn’t expected. It wasn’t about time travel, not really. It was about memory. About holding on to pieces of people we love.

Months passed, and Miguel became part of our family rhythm. But then one Thursday, he didn’t show up. A different driver came. No wave, no selfies, no jokes. Just another Thursday.

My niece was crushed. She asked where Miguel was, but the new driver shrugged. “Retired, I think. Didn’t say much. Just stopped showing up.”

We never saw him again.

But a week later, a package arrived at our house. No return address. Inside was a small box filled with neon green stickers, each with my niece’s name handwritten on them—some in Miguel’s handwriting, some in mine, some in a script I didn’t even recognize. At the bottom of the box was a folded note.

It said: “Don’t worry. I’ll see you yesterday.”

My niece laughed when she read it. “That’s just Miguel being silly,” she said. She plastered the stickers all over her schoolbooks, her bike helmet, even her water bottle.

But I kept the note. I keep it in my nightstand, folded and worn. Because deep down, I know Miguel wasn’t just being silly. He was saying goodbye in the only way he could.

And here’s the lesson I’ve carried from all of this: time is slippery. We spend so much of it rushing forward, worrying about tomorrow, regretting yesterday. But Miguel taught me something else—that kindness and connection live outside of time. That even if the days repeat, what we give each other doesn’t fade.

My niece still takes selfies with the sanitation truck, though it’s not the same. But every time I see her grin, I think of Miguel. Of his strange gift. Of the way he reminded us that ordinary moments—waves, hugs, candy canes—are the ones that stitch our lives together.

So when people ask why my niece gets so excited about a trash truck, I just smile. Because the truth is, it was never about the trash. It was about someone who chose to make a child feel seen, week after week, yesterday and tomorrow alike.

And maybe that’s what kindness really is. A way of stepping outside the clock, even for just a moment, to remind someone they matter.

If this story touched you, share it with someone you care about. And remember—whether it’s today, tomorrow, or yesterday, the smallest kindness can leave the biggest mark.