Unknown POV

He was watching her.
From across the street, behind the tilted window, he watched keenly, eyes fixed on the screen.

"She opened it finally," he muttered, a smirk playing on his lips. "But she won't find anything..."

What she didn't know was that he was watching her through her phone's camera . Every twitch, every glance.

And he could hear her too.

Every breath.

Every word.

Her face was frozen in fear and confusion . Raw, unfiltered vulnerability.

And it thrilled him.

This was the moment he had been waiting for.

His plan was finally in motion.

He heard the guy speaking.

"Someone knew you'd have this phone. Knew you'd unlock it. They wanted you to look."

"Why?" Natalya whispered. "There's nothing here."

This is exactly what I wanted, he thought, staring at the screen.

This is like watching a soap opera.

He watched the screen, seeing the guy's still gaze fixed on her, before he heard him say,

"Exactly."

He watched, eyes never leaving the screen, as Natalya suddenly got up losing her balance.

Her movements were frantic, quick as if something inside her had snapped.

She dashed out of the bakery, her steps heavy and hurried, her face locked in pure horror.

He leaned forward, fixated, as she walked swiftly down the street, heading towards her cabin.

What's going through her mind? Had I scared her enough? he wondered, a twisted excitement bubbling inside him.

Her face was a mix of terror and disbelief, and every step she took seemed to echo in his mind, a countdown to something he couldn't quite see yet, but knew was coming.

He was so close now. So close to breaking her again. And this time he will succeed.

Natalya POV

As soon as she reached the cabin she collapsed down onto the floor. What was happening to her? Who was she even?

Her only hope was to find something in her phone but that too was a utter failure. The guy's words echoed in her mind: Someone knew you'd have this phone. Knew you'd unlock it. They wanted you to look.

But who? Why is this happening to her? Who is playing with her life like this?

Her fingers trembled as she scrolled through the empty device, her eyes desperately searching for any clue, any trace of her past, her identity. But there was nothing. No memory, no answers. Just a void that seemed to mirror the hollow feeling growing inside her.

The cold dread in her stomach tightened with every passing second. It felt as though the weight of everything pressing on her was becoming unbearable.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. She repeated it a few more times, trying to regain control, trying to calm the storm raging inside her.

When she finally opened her eyes, she pushed herself off the floor, her legs shaky but determined.

She had to think, but her mind was a blank canvas, void of ideas, blank of purpose. What was she supposed to do now?

Frustrated, she bolted the door properly and rechecked it again and sat down on the cushion.

Then, without thinking, she emptied her bag. More like dumping it all at once onto the cushion and her eyes caught something among the contents.

It was that detective's card.

Detective Harris
Ashton Hills PD

She picked up the card and turned it the other way and saw a number in it.

Should she call? Maybe they had answers to her growing maze of questions. Or maybe this call would only add more questions to the pile she was already drowning in.

She clenched her fist around the card, her pulse quickening. There was no escaping this twisted game and she needed to know her life before the accident. She needed answers to every single question. And if calling Detective Harris was her only chance, then she had to take it.

With a shaky breath, she dialed the number. The phone rang, echoing in the silence of the cabin, amplifying her growing sense of uncertainty. It felt like an eternity before the line clicked.

"Detective Harris," a calm authoritative voice answered.

Her throat tightened, and she swallowed before speaking. "Hello... detective Harris. It's me Natalya speaking."

There was a beat of silence, then, "Yes, I remember. Natalya Reinhart." His tone shifted slightly, still professional, but with a hint of concern.

"You've been causing us quite a bit of trouble, ma'am. We've been looking for you. You never arrived at the housing complex. I'm glad you called. What can I do for you today? And more importantly, where are you? Are you alright?"

Natalya hesitated. Her fingers tightened around the phone as she glanced at the door, as if expecting someone to burst through it.

"Yes, I'm fine, detective. And I'm safe," she said, though her voice lacked conviction. Her gaze lingered on the door. "I just... I wanted to know if you found anything about me. Anything at all."

There was a pause on the other end, then Detective Harris responded, his voice steady but cautious.

"We've run your name through every system we could. There's not much, Natalya. Bare minimum, honestly. We found your birth certificate and two addresses. One at 12, Maple Drive, Brooklyn Heights, and another at 43, Willow Creek Road, Oakridge. But that's it."

Great the two addresses coming up again.

She frowned. "That's it?"

He sighed. "We also found death certificates... for your parents. Both passed away when you were 18 years old."

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. They're dead? That can't be... that means they passed away seven years ago.

"My parents are... dead?"

"I'm sorry," he said, his tone softening. "We don't have details on the circumstances, just the confirmation from state records but I'll look into it more. After that, your trail goes cold. No school enrollment, no employment records, no ID renewals. It's like you vanished."

Natalya's throat was dry. "But I reappeared?"

"Last year," he said. "When you applied for your driver's license. That was the first time your name popped back into the system."

A chill ran through her.

"What happened to me?" she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Harris's voice was calm, but firm. "That's what we're going to find out."Silence settled between them, heavy and unspoken. Natalya murmured a quiet thank you before ending the call.

She remained still for a moment, staring blankly at the wall beyond the cushion. Her thoughts spiraled. Fragmented, chaotic, slipping beyond her grasp. It was like watching herself unravel in slow motion.

She couldn't let it get worse.

Rising on shaky legs, she made her way to the kitchen, filled a glass with water, and reached for her medication. She took them, everything but the sleeping pill. She needed her mind sharp. Awake.

Even if it was tearing her apart.

She had to fix this. Solve her own mess.
And suddenly, the urge to write everything down hit her.

She remembered seeing a whiteboard in the storage room the day before, while exploring the cabin.

She went to the storage room, her heart pounding with a mix of urgency and dread. The whiteboard stood there, attached to a portable stand. The kind one would see in a police station. The kind that detectives used to map out their cases, to make sense of chaos.

She dragged it out, setting it down in the middle of the living room, and stood in front of it. Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps.

Without wasting another moment, Natalya grabbed a few markers from the cabinet in the living room and rushed back to the whiteboard. Her fingers moved quickly, her mind racing, as if the very act of writing would bring clarity.

She started at the top with her name: Natalya Reinhart. Beneath it, she scrawled her birth date. It felt almost surreal, seeing it written out like that, as if it somehow solidified her existence in a way nothing else had.

Then, she divided the board into three sections. Till 18, 18 to 24, and 24 to Present.

Each section felt like a timeline of her life. At least, what little she knew of it.

With a deep breath, she began to fill in the gaps.

Under Till 18 she wrote down: Grew up in Brooklyn Heights, Have an ID, Parents - Deceased, Reason - Unknown.

She paused, her pen hovering above the board. The words felt insufficient, as if they couldn't possibly encompass the years of her childhood, the people she had been before the black hole of her memory. The simple facts were there, but the emotions, the experiences, they were lost to her.

Shaking her head, she continued, determined to piece together what she could.

For the 18 to 24 section, she hesitated. There was nothing. No memories. The years felt empty, like a void in her mind. She scribbled: No school records, No employment records, No trace, nothing.

A sharp pang of frustration hit her chest. Those years, they were fully gone. Completely erased. What had she been doing during those six years? Had she been involved in something dark, something shady, that had led to the accident, causing her to lose all sense of herself?

Her breath hitched, and a wave of panic crept up her spine. No... no, that can't be it. She shook her head slightly, trying to will herself to focus. It wasn't helping to imagine scenarios that weren't grounded in anything real. She had to keep calm, keep her thoughts clear.

But her mind kept circling back to those lost years.

She turned to the last section—24 to Present. That was the only part of her life that felt somewhat tangible. There were things she could trace here: Driver's license at 24, Has a cabin in Oakridge, Current age 25, Had an accident outside Ashton hills.

She stared at the board, the list of sparse facts that made up her identity. It looked more like a case file than a person's life.
But it was a start.

She flipped the board to the other side, her hand tightening around the marker. With bold, deliberate strokes, she wrote in capital letters across the top:

ACCIDENT

The word hung there, stark and ominous. The moment everything had changed or maybe, the moment everything resurfaced.

Beneath it, she started a new list. Whatever she could remember. Whatever scraps might lead somewhere.
Even the smallest detail could be a thread worth pulling.

She wrote:

Date: 11/07/2024

Location: Side of a back road just outside of Ashton Hills

Any signs of violence: None

What was found: Only her clothes along with her ID (note: no phone)

Injuries: Head trauma, Memory loss

Weather: ?

Time: Night

Woke up: 3 months after the accident along with her phone (18/10/2024)

Anything else?:

-Visited old Brooklyn Heights address - abandoned for 10 years

- Weird story by that old lady

- Nothing useful found

- The stalker

- Strange messages

- The boy

- Cabin in Oakridge: untouched, filled with photos of her - creepy

She stared at the board.

The black ink stood out harshly against the white surface, every word like a brand, searing itself into her brain. Her eyes scanned the list again and again, as if repetition might unlock something. Some hidden key buried deep in her mind. But there was only silence. The kind that settled in bones. Heavy. Still.

Her gaze lingered on the last bullet point. Cabin in Oakridge: untouched, filled with photos of her — creepy.

The image flashed again in her head—the way the cabin had felt when she first walked in. Too clean. Too intentional. Like it had been waiting for her.

And the pictures.

Not just random snapshots.

They were organized. Framed. Some candid, some close-up, some so personal it made her skin crawl.

Someone had been watching her for a long, long time.

Her breath hitched. She uncapped a red marker and, below the list, in slightly shakier handwriting, added a new line:

Someone knew me.
Someone was waiting.

Her pulse ticked louder in her ears, and for a second she thought she might be sick. But she couldn't afford to fall apart. Not now.

She added a heading just below in red:

QUESTIONS

- Why was the cabin untouched?

- Who took her phone?

- Who sent the messages?

- Why her?

- Why return the phone after 3 months?

- What made her face the accident?

- Will she get her memories back?

Her throat tightened. The board no longer looked like a record.

It looked like a crime scene.

And she was the victim.

Or worse...

Maybe she was the reason it had all started.

Word count- 1997