The envelope felt heavier than it should. I flipped the letter over, reading it again just to make sure it hadn't sprouted fine print when I blinked.
"You have been selected to participate in an observational study. Non-participation is not an option."
Was this some sort of elaborate prank? My mother would never collaborate with local pranksters—she was far too dignified for that. She preferred guilt as her primary tool.
But there it was, right beneath my name and the unnerving lack of postage: my very own cosmic summons. And, just in case I missed the first hint, the handwritten postscript below glared with smug urgency:
"You'll want to pay attention. The universe rarely offers second chances."
I glanced around for hidden cameras—this was the exact kind of scenario that existed to humiliate unsuspecting mortals on social media. The only witness was an elderly neighbor wrestling with her umbrella.
Maybe there's a study on awkward mailbox behavior, and I'm skewing the results.
Feeling ridiculous, I stuffed the letter into my backpack and made my way home. My shoes still squeaked—a tragic soundtrack for someone handpicked by fate, apparently.
At home, I perched on my bed, the letter on my lap, the rest of the world fading around its stark authority. Was my life genuinely so boring the universe needed to audit it? I thought about the study. Observational? Like… reality TV? Or a psychological experiment where everyone but me is an actor with a clipboard?
My phone buzzed. A message from Mom: "Hope you got it. Don't ignore important things today."
So, she was in on it—or at least not surprised. I typed a reply. Then deleted it. Then tried again.
"Got it. What study?"
Her response came back in record time: "You'll do fine. Just be yourself."
That did not clear things up.
I examined the letter for clues—watermarks, invisible ink, microchips. All I got was a paper cut. Still, I couldn't deny an odd, pressing feeling, as though the letter pulsed in my bag whenever I wasn't looking.
Fine. If the universe wanted me to play, I'd play. I dug through my backpack for a pen, searching for action when there was none to take. Did I have to sign something? Bring the letter somewhere?
Then, as if triggered by my resignation, another line appeared at the bottom of the page, ink sliding across the fibers like oil over water:
"Your first task will be revealed at 7:00 PM. Please remain receptive."
I glanced at the clock: 6:34 PM. That left me twenty-six minutes to panic, google things like "mysterious government letters," and stare meaningfully at walls in hopes of an epiphany.
Minutes crawled. Shadows lengthened. At 6:59 PM, nothing had happened except I'd eaten half a sleeve of cookies in anticipation. At exactly 7:00 PM, while chewing, every light in my apartment flickered off. The laptop's screen went black—except for a single, floating sentence etched in electric blue on the dark:
"Observation begins. Please make one unexpected choice."
Great. That narrows it down. I can barely make expected ones.
I stood, heart hammering, in the darkness. Every possibility seemed equally absurd.
Maybe that was the point.
End of Chapter 2