It started with a text message.

"You don’t know me, but I know you. Meet me at Café Verona at 7 PM if you want the truth."

I stared at my phone, my heart hammering in my chest. The number was unknown. The logical part of me wanted to dismiss it as spam, but something about it felt eerily personal. And then there was that last part—the truth. Truth about what?

Curiosity won over caution, and at 6:55 PM, I found myself walking into Café Verona, the warm glow of the hanging lights doing little to calm my nerves. I scanned the room, half-expecting someone suspicious, maybe a figure in a dark hoodie, lurking in the shadows.

Instead, she looked… normal. A woman in her early thirties, dark hair in a ponytail, sipping a cappuccino like she hadn’t just sent the most cryptic message of my life. She glanced up, locked eyes with me, and smiled. "You came."

"Should I not have?" I slid into the seat across from her.

"That depends on how much you want to know."

I should have left right then. But I didn’t.

She pulled out a folder from her bag and slid it across the table. Inside were pictures of me—dozens of them. At work. At home. On my morning runs. Some from angles that could only mean they had been taken without my knowledge.

I felt a wave of nausea. "Who the hell are you?"

"Someone who’s been trying to protect you." Her voice was steady. "And someone who needs your help."

I pushed the folder back. "From what?"

She leaned in. "From the people who are watching you."

A chill ran down my spine. "Why would anyone be watching me?"

"Because you’re not who you think you are."

I let out a sharp laugh. "Oh, fantastic. Is this the part where you tell me I was part of some secret experiment? That I have a microchip in my head? Lady, I think you—"

"Your birthday is March 5, 1992," she interrupted. "You grew up in Brooklyn. Your mother’s name was Helen. She died in a car accident when you were sixteen."

My breath caught. "How do you—"

"None of that is real."

I froze.

She pulled out another sheet, this one a birth certificate. My name. But the date was different. The year was different. Even my parents’ names were different.

"This is fake." My voice wavered.

"No, the life you remember is fake. And the people who gave it to you? They want to make sure you never find out who you really are."

I don’t remember leaving the café. One moment I was sitting across from her, the next I was walking aimlessly down the street, my head spinning. The pictures. The birth certificate. The feeling that something wasn’t right.

By the time I reached my apartment, my hands were shaking. I locked the door behind me, heart pounding in my ears.

Then my phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: "You shouldn’t have met her."

I dropped the phone. My stomach twisted as I backed away, as if the device itself were tainted. And then the knock came.

Three slow, deliberate knocks.

I held my breath.

Then a voice. "Mr. Carter, we need to talk."

Carter. That wasn’t my name. It had never been my name. Or had it?

I didn’t move. The knocks came again, harder this time. "We know you’re in there."

I had a choice. Open the door and face whatever truth I wasn’t ready to accept. Or run.

I ran.

The subway station was crowded, but I kept my head down. Every shadow felt sinister. Every passerby seemed like they were watching me.

I needed answers. But I couldn’t go home. Not yet.

Then I remembered the folder. In my panic, I had left it at the café.

Cursing, I pulled out my phone. I had to find her again.

But my phone was dead.

Or… shut off. The screen was completely black, even when I tried turning it on.

Had they done this? Whoever they were?

I stepped onto the train, my mind racing. If my life was fake, if I had been given a false identity… then who the hell was I?

The next morning, I made my way back to Café Verona. But she was gone. No sign of the folder. No sign of her.

I asked the barista if they had seen her. "The woman you were with yesterday?"

"Yes! Dark hair, ponytail—"

The barista frowned. "Sir… you were alone."

My blood ran cold.

"That’s not possible. We were sitting right there—"

"You came in, sat down, and left in a hurry. But no one else was with you."

I backed away, shaking my head. No. No. No.

Had I imagined the whole thing?

But I still remembered the text. The folder. The pictures.

I turned to leave, but then I heard it. A whisper.

"Run."

I whipped around. No one was near me.

The barista gave me a confused look. "Sir?"

I turned back to the door. And froze.

Outside, standing across the street, was the woman from the café.

She smiled.

Then she vanished into the crowd.

And suddenly, I knew one thing for certain.

This wasn’t over.