A stranger in my story

The Photograph

The first photograph of my life was taken on the day I was born.

My mother kept it inside a small wooden box at the back of her wardrobe, beneath old scarves, birthday cards, and a faded blue dress she had worn during her pregnancy.

I knew because I had found it when I was fourteen.

There was nothing strange about the photograph then.

Just my mother sitting in a hospital bed, exhausted but smiling, with a tiny bundle in her arms.

Me.

Orelia.

Born on December 21, 2008.

At least, that was what my birth certificate said.

I had never questioned it.

Not until seventeen years later.

“Stop staring at the clock.”

I looked up from my phone.

Mum stood in the kitchen doorway, holding a mug of tea. Her hair was wrapped in one of those ridiculous scarves she wore every morning, and there was flour on her cheek.

“I wasn't staring at it.”

“You were.”

“I was checking the time.”

“You checked it four times.”

I smiled. “Maybe I like knowing what time it is.”

She narrowed her eyes at me.

“You're nervous.”

“I have an interview.”

“It is a school interview, Orelia. Not a court hearing.”

“It feels like one.”

Mum laughed softly and walked over to the kitchen table.

Today was my first day back after the holidays. Seventeen years old, final year, and somehow everyone seemed determined to remind me that I was supposed to know what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

University.

Career.

Future.

Everyone had a plan for me.

Except me.

I looked down at the photograph beside my breakfast plate.

I'd taken it out again that morning.

Not because there was anything special about it.

Because lately, I had begun to feel as though something was missing.

I couldn't explain it.

It was just a feeling.

A strange, persistent feeling that there was a piece of my life sitting somewhere out of reach.

Mum noticed the photograph.

Her smile disappeared.

“Where did you get that?”

I glanced at her.

“Your room.”

“You went through my things?”

“I was looking for my old journal.”

“You shouldn't be in there.”

Her voice was sharper than usual.

I slowly picked up the photograph.

“Why?”

“Because it's private.”

I turned it over.

There was nothing written on the back.

Nothing except a small black mark near the bottom corner.

“What happened to the rest of these?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You told me there were dozens of photographs from when I was born.”

“There were.”

“So where are they?”

Mum took a sip of tea.

“Some were damaged.”

“By what?”

“Time.”

I frowned.

“That doesn't make sense.”

“Not everything has to make sense, Orelia.”

She reached across the table and took the photograph from my hand.

For a second, something crossed her face.

Fear.

It was gone so quickly that I almost convinced myself I had imagined it.

Almost.

She put the photograph into her pocket.

“Get ready for school.”

“Mum—”

“Now.”

I watched her walk away.

Something had changed.

I just didn't know what.

By lunchtime, I'd almost forgotten about the photograph.

Almost.

I sat beneath the old tree behind the school library while my best friend, Nia, complained about our history teacher.

“He gave us thirty pages.”

“Twenty-eight.”

“That's worse. Why are you correcting me?”

I laughed.

Then my phone vibrated.

Unknown number.

I stared at the screen.

Unknown: You don't know the truth about your birthday.

My smile disappeared.

I showed Nia.

She read it twice.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “That's creepy.”

“Very.”

“Who sent it?”

“I don't know.”

Another message appeared.

Unknown: Ask your mother where you were born.

I stared at the words.

“I was born at St. Mary's.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“How?”

“My birth certificate.”

Nia looked at me.

“Then ask her.”

I didn't answer.

Because suddenly I remembered something.

Something I'd never thought was important.

Whenever anyone asked Mum where I was born, she always gave the same answer.

The same hospital.

The same city.

The same story.

But she'd never talked about the day itself.

Not once.

My phone vibrated again.

Unknown: The photograph is not your first photograph.

My stomach tightened.

I typed:

Who are you?

Three dots appeared.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

Finally, a message arrived.

Unknown: Someone who remembers you.

My hands went cold.

I looked across the school grounds.

Hundreds of students moved between buildings.

Laughing.

Talking.

Running.

Nobody looked suspicious.

Nobody looked like someone who had known me before I could remember knowing myself.

Then I saw her.

A girl standing near the school gates.

Dark hair.

Blue coat.

Watching me.

She looked strangely familiar.

Not familiar like a classmate.

Not familiar like a relative.

Familiar like a memory.

I stood up.

“Nia.”

“What?”

“Do you see that girl?”

“What girl?”

I pointed.

The girl was gone.

My heart pounded.

Nia stared at me.

“Orelia, you're pale.”

“I think someone is following me.”

“Who?”

I looked at my phone.

Another message appeared.

Unknown: Don't trust the photograph.

I swallowed.

Then a final message arrived.

Unknown: It isn't the day you were born.

For seventeen years, I'd believed I knew the beginning of my story.

Suddenly, I wasn't sure I knew the story at all.