It's a curious thing, how humans place their trust in one another, as if words alone could map out the future. But now, I'm asking—no, imploring—you to trust what I'm about to share. This isn't just a tale; it's the last truth I'll ever set down, written in this final letter, with you as its last reader.
It began on a frigid winter's night.
I woke to a darkness so thick it seemed to devour the room—darker than any midnight I'd known. Instinctively, I reached for the light switch, my fingers brushing the wall where it always sat. But there was nothing—just a cold, empty void beneath my touch.
Something was wrong.
The room felt foreign. I couldn't recall its shape, its edges, or even how it looked the day before. The silence pressed against me, unfamiliar and heavy. Was I still drunk from the night before? Half-lost in a dream? Before I could decide, a sound pierced the stillness—a faint, distant ring.
My phone.
Groping through the dark, I found it. The screen glowed to life, displaying a name: Son, and below it, the number 1006. Neither rang a bell. I didn't have a son, or anyone by that name in my contacts. I was 24, single, and had just celebrated my birthday the previous day. Without a second thought, I declined the call.
Phone in hand, I stood there—or so I thought. A minute dragged by, then another. Time blurred, stretching thin, until I realized I hadn't moved at all. I was still in bed, lying flat, the phone clutched against my chest.
I glanced at it again. The wallpaper stopped me cold. It wasn't mine.
In place of my usual background was a photo of a family I didn't know: a man in his thirties, a woman—maybe younger—beside him, and two kids, a boy and a little girl. Behind the boy, something blurred lingered—perhaps a cat, or something less certain. Their faces were hazy, like figures seen through a rain-streaked window.
I stared, grasping for recognition. Maybe the drinks from last night's party were still clouding my head. I tried unlocking the phone, tapping in my password: 2-0-0-1, my birth year.
Incorrect password.
Odd. I tried again. Same error.
Frowning, I studied the family photo again, searching for a clue. On a whim, I entered 1006—the number from the call.
The phone unlocked.
A chill coiled in my gut. I opened the camera, switched on the flash, and snapped a selfie, desperate for something familiar. The light flared, blinding me for a moment. When my vision cleared, I checked the photo.
It wasn't my face.
Someone else stared back—someone I didn't know. My mind erupted with questions: Who is this? Where am I? Whose phone is this? Why can't I remember? But exhaustion smothered any hope of answers. What I'd mistaken for clarity was now a fog, dragging me under.
And then it hit me again.
I was still in bed, phone in hand, as if no time had passed—yet everything had shifted. Bone-deep weariness pinned me down. I closed my eyes, questions swirling unanswered, until a single thought rose above the rest, lingering as I faded:
"It's too late."