The Message
At 11:47 p.m., Maya received a message from a number that didn't exist.
She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, trying to convince herself that the third cup of coffee she'd had that evening hadn't been a terrible idea.
Outside her apartment window, the city was still awake.
Cars moved like thin streams of light along the road below. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked twice and stopped.
Maya glanced at her phone.
11:47 PM
A notification appeared.
Unknown Number
Don't get on the train tomorrow.
Maya frowned.
She stared at the message for several seconds.
Then she laughed.
"Seriously?"
She had received strange messages before.
Wrong numbers.
Delivery notifications.
People trying to sell insurance.
Once, someone had sent her a photograph of a goat with the caption Look what you did.
She had never figured that one out.
But this was new.
She typed:
Who is this?
The message showed one tick.
Then two.
Then the reply appeared almost immediately.
Someone who knows you.
Maya rolled her eyes.
"Of course."
She put the phone face down on the bed.
Three seconds later—
Buzz.
She ignored it.
Buzz.
She picked it up.
Another message.
I'm serious, Maya.
Her smile disappeared.
Nobody called her Maya unless they knew her.
Most people who knew her called her May.
She looked at the number.
+00 000 000 000
Her eyebrows tightened.
That wasn't a real number.
She tried calling it.
The call didn't connect.
Instead, her screen went black.
For a moment, Maya could see her own reflection in it.
Tired eyes.
Messy hair.
A small silver pendant around her neck.
Her mother's.
She had worn it almost every day since she was seventeen.
Maya touched the pendant.
The phone lit up again.
A photograph.
Maya opened it.
And forgot how to breathe.
It was her.
Standing on Platform 4 of Central Station.
The red scarf around her neck.
Her mother's silver pendant resting against her collarbone.
Her right hand holding a black handbag.
Everything was exactly right.
Except for one thing.
Maya had never seen the photograph before.
She zoomed in.
The image was clearly taken from behind her.
Whoever had taken it had been standing several metres away.
She looked at the timestamp.
Tomorrow — 8:16 AM.
Maya stared at the screen.
"That's not funny."
Another message appeared.
Don't get on the 8:20.
She swallowed.
She typed slowly.
How did you take this photo?
No response.
Who are you?
Nothing.
Where did you get this?
The typing indicator appeared.
Three dots.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then:
I tried telling you before.
Maya's heart skipped.
Telling me what?
The reply came.
You never listen.
She sat upright.
That sentence bothered her.
Not because it was threatening.
Because it felt familiar.
Like something someone had said to her before.
Someone she couldn't remember.
Maya shook her head.
"No."
She placed the phone on the bedside table.
She was not going to play along.
Tomorrow morning she would go to work.
She would take the 8:20 train.
She would spend eight hours editing photographs for clients who thought just make it pop a little was an acceptable creative brief.
Then she would come home.
Normal.
Simple.
Predictable.
Her phone buzzed again.
She looked at it.
One final message.
Please, Maya.
Then another.
I'm begging you.
Something about those words made her chest tighten.
She didn't know why.
She picked up the phone.
Why?
This time, the answer took longer.
Almost a minute.
Then:
Because I've already watched you die.
Maya stopped breathing.
The room suddenly felt colder.
She read the sentence again.
And again.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
What?
No response.
What do you mean?
Nothing.
Who are you?
Silence.
Maya waited.
Thirty seconds.
One minute.
Two.
Then the phone buzzed.
A new photograph.
She opened it.
This one was different.
It wasn't the station.
It wasn't tomorrow.
It was a wedding photograph.
Maya stared at it.
She was wearing a white dress.
A man stood beside her.
Tall.
Dark hair.
Black suit.
His hand was around her waist.
Her hand rested against his chest.
They were smiling.
Not the polite smile people gave photographers.
A real smile.
The kind that came from somewhere deeper.
Maya's eyes moved to the man.
She didn't know him.
She was certain of that.
And yet...
Her heart did something strange.
A tiny, painful flutter.
She zoomed in on his face.
Dark eyes.
Straight nose.
A small scar near his left eyebrow.
She had seen that face before.
Not in a photograph.
Not in real life.
In her dreams.
For the past three months, Maya had been dreaming about a man whose face she could never remember after waking up.
A man who always stood at the end of a railway platform.
A man who never spoke.
A man who looked at her as if he had been waiting for years.
Maya dropped the phone.
It landed on the bed.
She stared at it.
"No."
The phone buzzed again.
She didn't touch it.
Another buzz.
Then another.
Finally, Maya picked it up.
The message said:
You don't remember me yet.
Her fingers went cold.
She typed:
Have we met?
The reply came instantly.
Yes.
Maya's heart began pounding.
When?
There was a pause.
Then:
Tomorrow.
She stared at the word.
Tomorrow.
The room seemed to tilt.
She looked at the clock.
11:53.
Only six minutes had passed since the first message.
Six minutes that had somehow changed the shape of her entire night.
She got out of bed.
Walked to the window.
Looked down at the city.
Everything seemed normal.
People were driving home.
A couple stood outside a closed restaurant.
A man was walking his dog.
Nobody knew that Maya's entire understanding of tomorrow had just been shattered.
She looked at her reflection in the glass.
For a second, she thought she saw someone standing behind her.
A man.
Tall.
Dark hair.
Black suit.
Maya spun around.
Nobody.
Her bedroom door was open.
The hallway was empty.
She turned back toward the window.
Her phone buzzed.
One last message.
She looked down.
Maya...
Then:
If you see me tomorrow, don't fall in love with me.
She stared at the screen.
A strange smile appeared on her face despite everything.
"Too late."
She didn't know why she had said it.
She didn't know who she was talking about.
And she certainly didn't know why, somewhere deep inside her chest, something already felt like it was breaking.
At exactly midnight, Maya's phone displayed one final notification.
Not a message.
A calendar reminder.
She had never created it.
CENTRAL STATION — PLATFORM 4
8:16 AM
Underneath it was a single sentence.
This is where everything begins.
Maya stared at the screen.
Then she whispered the question that would change everything.
"Who are you?"
Somewhere across the city, a man opened his eyes.
He looked at the clock.
12:00 AM.
He picked up his phone.
There was only one photograph on the screen.
Maya.
Sleeping.
Taken from inside her bedroom.
And underneath it, he had written:
I'm sorry, Maya.
This time, I found you first.
