The Man Who Built My Morning

The rain-slicked street swallowed the last of the evening light as you pressed the photograph against the café window, your breath fogging the glass. A child—you, unmistakably you, gap-toothed and clutching a red balloon—stood beside a man whose face you knew from a hundred magazine covers. The Architect. His hand rested on your small shoulder, his smile precise, possessive. The photo had arrived in a plain envelope an hour ago, no note, no return address. Just the image and a single line scrawled on the back: You were never an accident.

The barista inside called your name before you’d even stepped through the door. Your usual. Decaf, oat milk, extra foam. You hadn’t ordered it yet today. You hadn’t even decided to come in.

The stranger slid onto the stool beside you, his coat dripping, his voice low and urgent. “He knows you’ve seen it. You have three days before he decides what to do with you.”

Your phone buzzed. A text from your best friend: You okay? You seem off.

The stranger glanced at the screen and went pale.

“Don’t answer that.”