Emma Carrington had never felt more alone. The accident two years ago had stolen not only her memory but the essence of who she had been. She was a shell of the woman she once was—a woman with a history, a purpose, a life. All of that was gone, leaving her with nothing but fragmented recollections and a persistent, gnawing emptiness.
She lived in a quiet corner of New York, a city filled with noise but one she had learned to block out. She spent her days painting—dark, moody canvases that reflected the turmoil inside her mind. Each stroke of the brush was a desperate attempt to fill the void, to create something beautiful out of the pain that seemed to linger just beneath her skin.
But nothing ever felt right. Not the art, not the silence, not the loneliness. The feeling of something missing—someone—had never left her. She was a prisoner to her own mind, unable to escape the labyrinth of lost memories.
It was on one of those restless mornings, when the city was shrouded in rain, that the first letter arrived.
It was nothing special, just a plain white envelope with her name written in an unfamiliar script. She wasn't expecting any mail, so the sight of it alone sent a jolt through her body. She picked it up with trembling fingers, tearing it open. The words inside were simple, but they sent a chill down her spine:
Do you remember me?
The question hung in the air, an accusation, a plea, and a mystery all at once. Emma's breath caught in her throat. Who could possibly be asking her that? She had no memories of anyone from before the accident—nothing but the brief, hazy flashes that only left her more confused.
She read the letter again. And again. Her heart raced, and her hands grew clammy. Do you remember me? The words felt too personal, too specific to be random. It was as though the sender knew her intimately, knew her in a way no stranger could. But how?
Her mind raced as she tried to make sense of it. Was it a prank? Or was someone from her past reaching out to her? The thought both comforted and terrified her. But before she could process it any further, her phone buzzed on the table.
Another message. She looked at the screen, half-expecting it to be another cryptic clue, but it wasn't. It was a notification from a random number:
I'm closer than you think.
The words were colder, more threatening. Emma's breath hitched as she glanced at the envelope again. Someone knew something. Someone was watching her.