The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which Nora had always considered the most unremarkable day of the week. She almost didn't open it.
The envelope bore no return address, only her name written in handwriting she recognized instantly — her own.
That's impossible, she thought, turning it over. I've never written this.
Inside: a single photograph. Nora, standing in a doorway she didn't recognize, wearing a red coat she'd never owned. The timestamp in the corner read August 3, 2026 — tomorrow.
She set the photograph on the kitchen table and stepped back from it the way you step back from something that might bite.
"Okay," she said aloud, because saying things aloud had always made them smaller. It didn't work this time.
The phone rang. Unknown number. She answered it anyway.
"You got it." Not a question. A woman's voice, low and certain.
"Who is this?"
"Someone who sent it." A pause. "Don't go to Harrow Street tomorrow, Nora. Whatever reason you think you have — don't go."
"I don't know anyone on Harrow Street."
"You will," the voice said. "By morning, you will. And it'll seem like the most important thing in the world. That's the trap."
The line went dead.
Nora looked at the photograph again. At the red coat. At her own expression — not frightened, not confused. Determined. Like a woman who had already made up her mind.
She poured herself a glass of water she didn't drink and stood at the window watching the street below until the streetlights flickered on.
Her phone buzzed. A text from a number she didn't recognize: Found him. Harrow Street, noon. Come alone.
Nora read it twice.
Then she went to find a red coat.
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