A Message to 2076

May 20, 2026. To the student who opens this time capsule in 2076: My name is Leonor Alvarado, and I'm twelve years old. Today our class is burying a metal box under the jacaranda tree in the school yard, and our teacher says it will stay there for fifty years. So I'm writing down my predictions. Please check them for me.

By the time you read this, people will have stopped driving on roads. Cars will fly, and traffic jams will be something from history books. Robots will teach most classes, and they'll never get angry when somebody forgets their homework. Actually, there won't be any homework, because scientists will have found a way to put information straight into our brains. And somebody will have opened the first hotel on the Moon.

One last prediction, and this one is small. At break time, the whole school will still smell of bread. Every morning, Doña Amalia bakes sweet rolls in the school kitchen, and at about half past nine the smell gets into every classroom. After that, nobody can think about math anymore. I don't think anything will ever change that. I wonder who you are. Maybe you'll write back. Leonor.

May 20, 2076. Dear Grandma Leonor, Today we opened the capsule. When Mr. Itzep read the name on your envelope out loud, I nearly fell off my chair. I knew you went to this school, but you never told me about the letter.

So, here are your results. Cars still drive on roads. They're electric and quiet, but there's still a traffic jam outside the school every morning. All our teachers are humans. Our only robot cleans the floors and gets stuck under the tables twice a day. We still have a lot of homework, and nothing goes straight into our brains. And nobody has opened a hotel on the Moon yet.

But you got one thing right. At about half past nine this morning, while Mr. Itzep was reading your letter to the class, the smell of warm bread came in through the door, and everybody burst out laughing. The kitchen still bakes sweet rolls every day. The cook is called Doña Juana, and she says the recipe was her grandmother's. Her grandmother's name was Amalia.

So out of all your big predictions about the future, the only one that came true was the smallest. I've saved a sweet roll for you. I'll bring it to your house after school, and you can tell me if it tastes the same. With love, Valentina.