Chapter 1: Day One?
I find myself back at Abi’s.
The hour is indeterminate, though the darkness beyond the windows suggests night. Or maybe early morning. Time here always feels strange, not quite linear, not quite real.
I can’t recall the drive over, though I’m sure I must have taken one. My keys are in my pocket, my coat smells faintly of the outside chill, but if someone asked me where I slept last night, I wouldn’t have an answer.
Why are there so many things I can’t remember?
I must have slept. I think.
My gaze drifts over the café, tracing the soft glow of the candle effect lights hanging along the ceiling, the way the wooden bookshelves cast long, slanted shadows across the floor.
Everything is exactly as I left it—orderly, quiet.
The memory of setting it all up becomes unbearably strong and my ears start to ring. I remember straightening the tables before locking up, aligning the chairs just so. I remember turning off the lights, stepping outside, the final scrape of the key turning in the lock.
I remember leaving.
And yet, standing here now, it feels as though I never left at all.
Looking over at the window, I see my reflection in the glass. My eyes look deeper than I remember—I feel like a stranger.
A sense of unease coils low in my stomach. I shake it off, focusing on the shelves, the books I spent the evening after close organizing.
But then—
Something is wrong. Shifted.
A book sits nearly dead center on the center shelf, wedged between the others in a way that draws my eye instantly. I know it wasn’t there before. I would have noticed.
More than that, it feels deliberate, as if the entire wall of books is subtly tilting toward it, pulling my attention.
I step closer, slow, uncertain.
The air in the café seems thicker now, charged with something I can’t quite name.
The book’s cover is old, older than anything else in my collection. Worn leather, no title, no author. Just the faint impression of a key embossed in the center.
My breath catches.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a thought stirs.
Not déjà vu, not quite. But something close.
As I reach out, the store shifts—no, breathes—around me.
The silence grows heavier, pressing in, expectant.
The moment my fingers brush the spine, the café lights flicker.
Not randomly, not like faulty wiring, more like the blink of an unseen eye.
A pulse.
A heartbeat that isn’t mine.
I lift the book from the shelf. Heavier than it should be. Turning it over in my hands, the cover feels oddly warm.
There’s no dust, no sign of neglect, as if it had been waiting. As if it had always been here, just unnoticed.
The first page is brittle beneath my fingertips, the kind of aged paper that’s been turned a thousand times.
But before I can read the words, something stops me.
A slip of paper, wedged between the pages.
Not a receipt. Not a bookmark.
A note.
Handwritten. Faded. Four words.
You left too soon.
A chill laces down my spine.
Because the handwriting?
It looks exactly like mine.
I know it’s mine.