Not in her seat. On the floor. Curled on the cold concrete between two dusty chairs, her bag pressed awkwardly under her ribs. Her neck ached. Her mouth was dry. And it was dark—almost completely. Only the emergency light by the exit door buzzed faintly, like a single dying star.

Tobi sat up slowly. The silence in the room was heavy. The hum of the fluorescent light above was the only thing anchoring her to the present. Her mind felt cotton-wrapped—like she had been dreaming underwater and surfaced too fast.

She didn’t remember falling asleep.

Her last clear memory was parting with Zion at her lecture hall. An offhand comment about submitting her latest manuscript. Then… nothing. A hole.

She checked her phone. 9:46PM. Ten missed calls from Zion.

What the hell.

Tobi stood up, legs stiff. Her bag slipped off her shoulder. As she bent to grab it, she noticed a small, folded paper tucked between the pages of her manuscript.

She didn’t recognize it. But her name was on it. Neatly written. Right in the center.

Tobi.

Black ink. Slanted handwriting. Not hers.

Her heart beat once, loud and slow. She sat down in the nearest seat and unfolded the letter.

_____

You told my story before I could.

But I forgive you.

You just don’t remember doing it.

That’s the thing about forgetting—it feels a lot like innocence. But forgetting doesn’t make you clean.

It just makes you dangerous.

You forgot again. So I’ll remind you.

You watched him die. You wrote it beautifully.

The blood. The breath. The way his mouth couldn’t hold the last word.

Don’t worry, I cleaned everything.

You always leave a mess.

____

The room tilted slightly. Tobi blinked at the paper. Her breath slowed, but each inhale felt sharp and deliberate, like her body wasn’t sure what emotion to go with.

She stared at the letter again.

The handwriting was neat, slanted right. Blocky. Like a man’s.

She checked the back. Blank.

She checked her notebook. The pages it was wedged between hadn’t been disturbed, but her pen had moved—it was no longer in the spiral binding where she kept it.

She felt the first trace of unease crawl up the back of her neck.

She tried to laugh. Out loud. It came out thin.

Maybe Zion was pulling something. Maybe Mr. Dike read her manuscript and was trying to “motivate” her in the creepiest way possible. She’d told only two people about the story: her best friend and her writing mentor. That was it.

But she couldn’t shake it.

Because the letter didn’t sound like them. It sounded… familiar in a different way. The kind of familiar that makes you feel like someone’s watching you from behind a mirror.

Tobi folded the paper again and slid it into her bag. She didn’t want to look at it anymore.

As she stood to leave, her foot slipped slightly—wet. She looked down.

Mud.

Not much. Just a faint print where her heel had rested on the tile. She lifted her shoe.

The sole was caked.

But it hadn’t rained today.