The next morning, Aaliya woke with a pit in her stomach. She hadn’t dreamed—at least, not that she remembered—but her sleep had been shallow, broken by sudden jolts awake, as if something in her subconscious wouldn’t let her rest.
She made tea and sat by the window, staring down at the street below. People hurried about their mornings—umbrellas bobbing, rickshaw horns blaring, the bakery on the corner already sending out warm, sweet smells. Their lives looked so ordinary. Normal. And yet hers felt like it had been tipped onto a path she hadn’t chosen.
She turned and saw it.
Another envelope.
It was lying on the kitchen table, neatly placed on top of yesterday’s unopened groceries. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. She hadn’t put it there. She was certain of that. She hadn’t left her apartment unlocked.
Her hands shook as she tore it open.
*“Good. You are learning to listen. You are alive today because you obeyed me. But trust must go further. Tomorrow evening, do not attend the poetry reading your friend invited you to. Stay away. Something will happen there. If you go, you will suffer. Believe me.”*
Aaliya’s pulse thundered in her ears.
She remembered the conversation clearly. Just two nights ago, her best friend Sana had begged her to come. “You’ll love it, Ali. Small crowd, open mic, your kind of thing. Maybe you’ll even read your work.”
It had sounded harmless—fun, even. Now, the idea of stepping foot into that café filled her with dread.
But a part of her resisted. Was she really going to let faceless letters dictate every move of her life? What if this time, it wasn’t about saving her, but controlling her?
By evening, Sana called. “You’re still coming tomorrow, right? Don’t back out on me, please.”
Aaliya hesitated. Her throat tightened with the weight of the truth she couldn’t explain. Finally, she forced a smile into her voice. “I’ll let you know.”
That night, she lay in bed, torn. The memory of the bookstore accident flashed before her—shattered glass, the sirens, her manager carried out on a stretcher. If not for the letter, that could have been her.
But what if the letters weren’t always right? What if this time they were wrong, and she’d ruin her friendship for nothing?
The next day crawled forward, each hour pressing heavier on her chest. Evening arrived too quickly. She dressed twice—once to go, once to stay home—before finally sinking into her couch with her phone in hand.
At 7:00 p.m., when Sana’s messages started lighting up her screen, Aaliya typed only two words: “Can’t come.”
Her chest ached with guilt, but she didn’t move.
She sat in silence for hours, waiting, her nerves raw, ears tuned to every sound outside. Nothing happened.
By 10:00, she convinced herself it had been a test. That the letter had tricked her into proving her obedience.
Relief began to wash over her—until her phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn’t Sana. It was a news notification.
BREAKING NEWS: Accident at downtown café during open mic night. Gas leak causes small explosion; several injured, one hospitalized. Investigation ongoing.
The name of the café made her blood run cold.
It was the same one Sana had invited her to.
Her hands trembled violently as she clutched the phone. The letter had been right again. If she had gone, she might have been among the injured.
But as relief mingled with terror, one truth settled heavier than all the rest:
The letters weren’t just saving her life anymore.
They were isolating her.
Here is the fifth chapter
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