The boy was gone by the time Koyi got to the window.
Just the streetlamp outside, flickering like it always did, and the empty sidewalk yawning beneath it.
But the freckle under his left eye—it was clear as day in her memory. The exact detail from the letter. The warning that had melted into ash right in her hands.
She didn't sleep that night.
By morning, her mind was an engine refusing to turn off.
"Maybe it's a trick," she whispered to herself while brushing her teeth. "Some elaborate prank. Someone could've read my journal… somehow."
But even as she spoke it aloud, it didn't fit.
No one knew about her dreams. No one could fake that handwriting, that mark. And certainly, no one could make paper dissolve into dust.
After Asha left for her weekend class, Koyi grabbed her phone and typed "symbol two arrows circle meaning" into the search bar. Her Wi-Fi crawled like a snail, but eventually, the images loaded.
There it was.
Not exactly the same, but close. The same swirl with arrows chasing each other like an ouroboros—but modernized.
Most results were vague: "cycle of time," "paradox loop," "sign of the twofold path," "used in old European alchemy, dream lore, and theoretical time studies."
The phrase that kept repeating in different sources was:
"One path forward, one path forgotten."
Chills crept up her spine.
She clicked on a sketchy site titled Chronos Faith & Temporal Memory, but the page wouldn't load.
Koyi leaned back in her chair, gripping the edge of the table. Her fingers tapped nervously.
What did all of this mean? Why her?
The knock on the door almost made her jump out of her skin.
She closed all her tabs and sat straight as Asha popped her head in.
"You're hiding something."
Koyi blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You've been twitchy since yesterday. Your eyes are doing that scanning thing—like you're seeing ghosts."
"I'm fine."
"Lies." Asha plopped on the bed and crossed her arms. "If this is about a boy, blink twice."
Koyi rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress the heat crawling up her neck.
Asha leaned forward dramatically. "Oh. My. God. It is about a boy!"
"Don't make a movie out of it."
"I'll write the screenplay myself," Asha said. "Now spill."
Koyi hesitated, chewing her bottom lip. She wanted to tell her everything. The letter. The freckled boy. The feeling that her life was on the edge of something supernatural.
But something stopped her.
The letter had said don't trust him—but what if she wasn't meant to trust anyone yet?
"I'll tell you soon," Koyi murmured. "Promise. I just need time to… figure things out."
Asha frowned but let it go.
"Fine. But if you turn into a vampire or travel to Mars without me, I'm haunting you."
Later that day, Koyi walked alone through their neighborhood, keeping her eyes peeled. She wasn't sure what she was looking for—but she found it.
The boy.
Leaning against the brick wall near the bakery. His hoodie was down this time, and his face was clearer.
Tan skin. Soft eyes. That single, unmistakable freckle under his left eye.
He looked... ordinary. But her instincts screamed otherwise.
He noticed her before she could duck away.
"You saw the letter," he said. Not a question.
Koyi froze. "Who are you?"
His gaze held hers. "You know who I am. Not yet, but you will."
"I'm not playing games."
He nodded. "Neither am I."
There was something about his voice. It was deep, soft, with an ache threaded through it. Familiar, in a strange, haunting way.
"You said not to trust you," she said. "Why?"
"I didn't say that. You did."
Koyi's heart skipped.
"What does that even mean?"
"You'll understand when you send the next one."
"What next one?"
But he was already backing away.
"Wait—!"
"You won't remember this soon," he said. "But remember this much: everything starts on the 14th of March."
"That's my birthday," she muttered.
"I know."
With that, he disappeared into the alley. When Koyi rushed after him, it was empty.
Her breathing was ragged.
That night, she lay on her bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Her brain couldn't slow down. The letter. The warning. The mark. Him.
She finally drifted into sleep sometime past midnight.
In her dream, everything was white.
No ground. No sky. Just endless blankness.
She stood barefoot, her nightgown rustling with no wind. Then something floated down from above.
A paper.
Familiar.
She reached out and caught it mid-air.
There was only one word written on it this time, bold and pulsing in black ink:
REMEMBER.
When she woke, her heart was racing.
She grabbed her phone and checked the date.
June 4.
Still the same day.
Still not March 14.
She sat up, dazed.
And then she realized something terrifying.
The word "remember" wasn't just in her dream. It was on her mirror, written in foggy script, like someone had breathed on the glass and traced it with their finger.
She stumbled backward, breath caught in her throat.
Someone—or something—was trying to send her a message.
Again.
But this time, it wasn't just from tomorrow.
It was already here.