Lena couldn't tear her eyes away from the envelope.
It was resting on her windowsill like a ghost's whisper—delicate, black, and sealed with a silver wax stamp she hadn't seen in years. Her fingers trembled as she reached for it. The "J" pressed into the wax was unmistakable.
Jay's handwriting. His symbol.
But how?
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as she carefully opened it.
Inside, a letter.
Lena,
If you're reading this, it means the time has come. I know you still hurt, and I'm sorry. But please—for your own safety—don't try to find me.
Forget everything we were.
Everything we could've been.
Some truths are better left buried.
—Jay
Lena stumbled back onto the couch. Her hands went cold. The letter slipped from her grasp and landed softly on the rug.
This couldn't be real.
Jay had died. She remembered the funeral—his pale, peaceful face in the coffin, the way the world had seemed to stop the moment she saw it. That haunting silence. The weight of finality.
But this letter… it was him.
She read it again. Every curve of his handwriting was etched into her memory. It wasn't a forgery. This was Jay.
But how?
And why warn her?
The apartment suddenly felt too small, too quiet. She walked to the kitchen to pour a glass of water, her thoughts racing. The faucet hissed. Then, as she turned it off, something caught her eye.
Another envelope.
This one lay beneath her door—just slipped in. She hadn't even heard the sound.
Lena froze.
She walked slowly toward it, dread building in her chest. The second envelope was identical. Another silver seal. Another "Jay."
She opened it.
No letter—just a photo.
Her and Jay. Laughing together outside a café she didn't recognize. Her arm around him. His head tilted back in laughter.
She turned it over. Just five words, scribbled in the same familiar hand:
"You forgot. I never did."
A shiver crawled down her spine.
She didn't remember this day. Not the café. Not the photo. Not even that version of herself—so carefree, so in love.
Lena raced to her laptop. She zoomed into the photo. In the background, the name of the café: Café Lumière.
A quick search pulled up the result—and froze her blood.
Café Lumière. Destroyed in a gas explosion. One fatality. Jay Donovan.
Her screen blurred as her eyes welled with tears.
Jay Donovan.
The same name. The same face.
But… this article was five years old.
How could he have died then—when she met him after?
Her breath caught in her throat.
Who had she really loved?
That night, sleep refused to come. Lena sat on her bed, the photo in one hand, Jay's letter in the other.
At 3:04 a.m., the lights flickered.
Then… a sound.
Footsteps. Slow. Outside her door.
She crept to it, listening. The hallway was silent. But on the mirror near her entryway, letters began to appear in the condensation—though no one had been near it.
She watched, frozen, as the words formed:
"Stop looking, Lena."
Her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number:
"You won't like what you find."
Tears slipped down her cheek.
She looked toward the mirror again.
The message had changed.
"Some memories protect you."
And then—nothing.
Lena stood in the silence, the weight of the unknown pressing in.
Jay wasn't just gone.
He had become a mystery she was now part of.
And deep down, she knew:
She could never stop looking.
Not until she found the truth.
Even if it shattered her.