It was just after dawn in the village of Windlebrook, and the smell of ink was already thick in the air. The sharp tang mingled with the yeasty scent of bread wafting from the bakery next door. Inside a squat stone building with smoke curling from the chimney, Thomas the Pressman hunched over his wooden printing press, sleeves rolled and brow furrowed as he pressed another sheet into place. He grunted, then cranked the lever with a practiced groan.

A clean thwap rang out. Another copy of The Windlebrook Whistle was born.

Thomas wiped his ink-smudged hands on his apron and stacked the new papers with a sigh. "Thirty copies by breakfast," he muttered. "Not bad for a man with two working thumbs and a town full of complaints."

Just as he stepped outside to lay the stack on his newsbench, three villagers approached with the kind of expression usually reserved for spoiled meat.

“Thomas,” said Bertha the baker, hands on flour-dusted hips, “why’s the front page talking about the tavern fire? That happened yesterday.”

“It’s hardly news if we already know about it,” added Cyril the shepherd, his flock baa-ing disinterestedly behind him.

“Aye,” piped in Edgar the cooper, squinting at the headline. “I was there. I helped carry out the ale barrels!”

Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled slowly, the way he did before dealing with ink spills or opinionated pigeons.

“Well, what else am I supposed to print?” he said, voice tight but polite. “I write about what’s happened. That’s what news is. I can’t very well write about what hasn’t happened yet, can I?”

The trio exchanged glances, then Bertha nodded slowly. “Well… maybe you could. Maybe write about what will happen.”

Thomas blinked. “What.”

“You know,” Cyril said, nodding sagely, “tell us what’s going to happen tomorrow. Save us the trouble of finding out.”

“That’s not how—” Thomas stopped himself, took a breath, then tried again. “I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. I’m not a wizard, Cyril. I run a press, not a crystal ball!”

Edgar scratched his beard. “Wouldn’t need many guesses. It’s the Midsummer Pig Race tomorrow. Could’ve put that in.”

“That’s not news,” Thomas said through gritted teeth. “That’s the calendar!”

Bertha stepped closer, squinting at him. “You know, you’re a touch defensive for a man who wrote five paragraphs about Old Man Grigson falling in the duck pond.”

“He had a goose on his head!” Thomas exclaimed. “It was whistling! You don’t see that every day!”

“Yes,” said Cyril dryly, “yesterday.”

Thomas turned back toward his press, muttering. “Fine. Next edition, I’ll print the entire future. 'Bertha overbakes her bread, Cyril trips on a root, Edgar knocks over his own barrel.'”

“Now that,” said Edgar, smiling, “sounds like a story worth reading.”

As the trio wandered off, chuckling and shaking their heads, Thomas stood in the doorway of his shop and scowled fondly after them. “One of these days,” he muttered, “I’m going to write a whole issue about nothing at all. Blank pages. Call it Tomorrow’s News. We’ll see how they like that.”

From inside the shop, the printing press gave a sympathetic creak. Thomas sighed and reached for the ink once more.