Chapter Four – The Dark Turn

The envelope was waiting on her doormat when she got home that evening.

Aaliya froze in the hallway, her grocery bag sliding from her fingers. Oranges rolled across the cracked tiles, bouncing lazily against the skirting board, but she barely noticed. Her gaze was fixed on the envelope.

At first glance, it looked ordinary—plain white, the kind of envelope that might hold an electricity bill or a bank statement. But Aaliya’s stomach twisted at the sight. These letters were anything but ordinary. She could still hear Salman Rafiq’s voice from the news report, still picture his navy scarf stained with coffee, still imagine the flames that would have swallowed him if not for her.

Her pulse quickened as she bent to pick it up.

Inside her apartment, she dropped the groceries on the counter without unpacking them. She set the envelope on the table, staring at it like one might stare at a venomous snake—both afraid to touch it and afraid to turn away. Finally, with trembling fingers, she tore it open.

The handwriting was the same as always: neat, slanted, confident.

“Well done. You saved a life. Now you see the truth: trust me, and your life will change.

Your next step is simple. Tomorrow, do not go to work. Stay home. Do not answer your phone. Do not speak to anyone. If you disobey, you will regret it.”

Aaliya let the letter fall onto the table, her breath shallow.

Stay home? That was it?

Her first reaction was disbelief, then anger. “What is this?” she muttered aloud. “What kind of game are you playing with me?”

But no one answered. The only sound was the refrigerator humming in the background.

She paced the small living room, back and forth, back and forth. Her job wasn’t glamorous—long hours at a dusty bookstore—but it was all she had. If she skipped a day, her boss would notice. He was already annoyed with her constant daydreaming behind the counter.

“This is stupid,” she whispered, pressing her palms against her face. “It’s just paper. Words on a page. Why am I letting them control me?”

But then she remembered the café. The man in the navy scarf. The news report. She remembered how the letter had predicted it all, down to the smallest detail.

What if this letter was the same?

The thought dug its claws into her mind, refusing to let go.

Sleep came late and restless. She tossed and turned until the first pale light of dawn crept through the blinds. When the alarm rang, she lay still, staring at the ceiling. Her heart beat so loudly she thought it might crack her ribs.

Finally, with shaking fingers, she texted her boss: Not feeling well. Can’t come in today.

The reply came minutes later, curt and annoyed: Fine. Don’t make this a habit.

Relief and guilt tangled in her chest. She spent the morning making tea, wandering her apartment, trying to distract herself with half-written stories on her laptop. But the hours dragged. Every tick of the clock made her more restless, more foolish.

At noon, her phone buzzed with her boss’s name. She stared at the screen, torn. One swipe, one word—hello—and she’d break the letter’s rules. But the warning burned in her mind: If you disobey, you will regret it.

She let it ring. The call ended. Silence returned, thick and heavy.

By evening, frustration boiled inside her. “This is ridiculous,” she snapped to the empty room. “I wasted an entire day doing nothing because I’m scared of… of a ghostwriter with fancy penmanship.”

She nearly laughed at her own joke when her phone buzzed again—this time with a message. It was from Sana, her best friend.

*Sana: “Aaliya, are you okay?? I just heard… there was an accident near the bookstore. A delivery truck crashed into the front window around noon. Your shift manager got hurt. If you were there, you—”*

Aaliya’s eyes widened. The words blurred as her throat tightened. She read them again, slower, her chest hollowing out.

The accident. Noon. The exact time she would have been standing behind the counter.

Her hands shook as she dropped the phone onto the couch and sank to the floor. She pressed her palms over her face, struggling to breathe.

The letters weren’t coincidences.

They weren’t pranks.

They were watching her, guiding her, saving her.

But as she sat in the dim light of her apartment, the question she had been avoiding pressed harder than ever:

If the letters had the power to protect her… what else might they demand?

That all for today

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