At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.
The name sat there in bold letters, steady and cruel, like it knew what it was doing.
Kane.O
I blinked once. Twice.
The name didn't vanish.
Kane had been dead for three years.
I remember because I was there at the funeral. I remember the weight of the coffin, the silence of the people who couldn't decide if he deserved flowers or fire.
My heartbeat quickened, but my fingers still moved. I clicked the mail.
The subject line said only one thing:
"Tell my story."
There was no greeting.
No explanation.
Just a single paragraph that made my blood run cold.
"You took everything from me. The least you can do now is give me my ending."
I stared at it, waiting for the prank to reveal itself. Maybe some sick joke from a forgotten contact, or a hacker trying to stir up old ghosts.
But the mail wasn't sent from an address I recognised. It wasn't even a full email address, just a string of numbers and letters that made no sense.
When I tried to trace it, my laptop froze for a second. The cursor flickered. Then a new line appeared below the message, as if someone was typing.
"You remember what you did, A.K. Don't pretend you don't."
I pushed away from the desk so fast my chair fell.
The sound echoed through the room, and for a moment, I could almost swear someone else was there, watching me.
I wanted to close the laptop. To run. To breathe. But curiosity is a curse for writers.
It's the one thing that drags us into stories we should have left alone.
And that night, I did what every terrified, foolish writer would do.
I whispered to the empty room, What do you want from me?
The cursor blinked again.
Then another line appeared.
"You already know. Start with the night she died."