I find the first letter on a Monday, crammed between pages 42 and 43 of a book I don’t remember buying. It’s a small slip of paper, folded four times, worn and slightly brittle at the edges. I unfold it carefully, more out of habit than curiosity.
The ink, faded but legible, forms three lines:
You’re not where you think you are. You’ve missed something. Try again.
No name, no signature. Just that. I frown, placing the letter aside, but something gnaws at the back of my mind. Missed what?
By Thursday, I’ve convinced myself it was some kind of practical joke, a clever marketing gimmick perhaps. I dismiss it as forgotten as the dust between the floorboards. But then I find the second letter.
This one’s slipped between two slices of bread as I unpack my groceries—folded again, the paper much the same as before, but this time more deliberate in its intrusion. I stare at it longer than I should, my hand hovering over the loaf, unsure of what to do next. Finally, I open it.
The thing you’re looking for isn’t a thing at all. It’s an idea.
I blink, the words scattering across my vision as if they’ve suddenly become unanchored. I toss the bread aside and re-read the note. The handwriting is the same. Same careful strokes, same vague sense of urgency. I don’t have any idea what this means—or why someone would be leaving these notes for me. I’m not looking for anything.
Am I?
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By Sunday, I’ve lost my appetite. Three more letters have appeared, each one in a stranger place than the last. One inside my coat pocket—though I’ve not worn it in weeks. Another pinned to my bathroom mirror when I wake up. A third slipped into my pillowcase, its folds indented against my cheek. Each message is more cryptic than the last.
You’re being hunted, but not in the way you think.
Close your eyes and remember the sound of your own footsteps.
The last piece is always the hardest to see because it looks just like everything else.
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I begin to suspect there’s a pattern. A larger game. My apartment feels wrong, like someone has rearranged the furniture in infinitesimal ways that don’t register until I stare too long. I can’t sleep. My phone rings with a hollow, electronic click before hanging up. When I pick it up to redial, there’s no record of any call.
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Two weeks in, I’ve made a kind of ritual of it. I search every inch of my home, looking for new letters before they can surprise me. I leave doors unlocked, windows open, hoping to catch whoever’s responsible in the act. But no one comes.
Instead, the letters keep multiplying. I’ve found twenty-three so far, each one repeating variations of the same half-coherent message. They whisper about forgotten things, about something I’ve lost, but I can’t remember losing anything at all. And that’s the real problem, isn’t it? The not knowing. Because what if I did lose something? Something so integral that its absence is the reason why nothing feels quite real anymore?
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I decide to leave the apartment. I’ve packed a bag, closed the blinds, checked my reflection in the mirror for any lingering distortions. I can’t explain it, but I need to get away from the letters—from the constant sense of being watched by something I can’t see.
The moment I step outside, though, I find the final letter. It’s pinned to my door, hanging crooked like it was meant for someone else but ended up here instead. I unfold it slowly, the paper trembling in my hands.
You’ve misunderstood. The letters aren’t warnings.
And that’s when I hear it—the soft rustle of pages turning, not from the book in my hand, but from somewhere behind my eyes.