Natalie blinked.
The memory—if it was even that—lingered like smoke in her mind, curling into the corners of her thoughts.
"Run, Nine."
Why did it sound like it was meant for her? She shook her head sharply, dispelling the phantom echo.
No. This was ridiculous.
She was tired, that was all. Exams were creeping closer. Maybe she hadn't been sleeping as well as she thought. Natalie stood up from the bench slowly, her fingers still wrapped around the letter.
The name—Sasha—was scrawled in a careful, almost childlike hand.
She slid it into her bag, unsure why she wasn't just throwing it away or giving it to the school's lost and found.
The air had turned colder. Warsaw dusk bled over the city in a pale golden wash, the kind that made everything feel just slightly unreal. People passed her on the sidewalk. A couple laughed as they walked arm-in-arm. A cyclist rang their bell and disappeared down a side street.
It was all normal. Familiar. But something felt broken beneath the surface. Natalie buttoned her coat tighter and started home.
The familiar route calmed her. Through the old town square, past the bakery with the pink awning, then down the cracked pavement that led to the row of quiet houses where her family lived. Brick, modest, home. She reached the front steps just as the streetlights flickered on. Her breath formed a thin mist as she stood there, listening to the quiet. Inside, the warm glow of the kitchen light spilled through the curtains.
She opened the door.
"Natalie, sweetie?" her mother called from the stove. "Dinner's almost ready. Your father's just getting home from work."
Natalie smiled, forcing the corners of her mouth to rise. "I'll wash up first." She made her way upstairs, pausing only once on the landing, hand on the rail.
That voice still echoed in the back of her skull like a whisper from a locked room.
"Run, Nine."
She didn't know why, but her skin bristled with cold as she climbed the final step. And in the quiet hall outside her bedroom door, she felt it again— Someone was watching her. But when she turned… Nothing. Just the silent hallway and the distant rattle of pots in the kitchen. Natalie went inside, shut the door behind her, and locked it. She didn't know why she felt safer that way. But she did. And the letter remained in her bag—unopened, heavy, waiting.
Natalie emerged from her room half an hour later, hair damp from the shower, the unease in her chest buried just deep enough to smile through.
Downstairs, the scent of dill and roasted vegetables filled the air—her mother's pierogi and stew. Comfort food. A warmth that wrapped around her like the old blanket she used to drag around as a kid.
"Natalka, go set the table," her father called as he kicked off his boots at the front door. He was still in his navy work jacket, face ruddy from the wind.
"Already on it," she replied, sliding into the kitchen and grabbing the plates from the cupboard. She moved through the motions almost on autopilot—napkins, forks, glasses filled with kompot. Her mother gave her a sideways glance from the stove, wooden spoon tapping the pot gently.
"You all right, sweetie?"
Natalie hesitated just a second too long.
"Yeah," she said, flashing that same, too-practiced smile. "Just a long day."
Her mother didn't press. Just hummed softly and turned back to the bubbling stew. But Natalie felt her eyes on her, even when her back was turned.
They sat down a few minutes later. Her father heaped her plate like he always did. "Eat, Natka. You'll need fuel for all that law you're studying."
She laughed softly, sipping from her glass. "Right. Gotta memorize the whole constitution by next week."
"You'll do it," her mother said, tapping her fork against Natalie's plate. "Your stubbornness will carry you through law school and probably get you arrested someday."
They all chuckled.
And for a few minutes, it felt normal.
It felt safe.
But beneath the laughter, something still pulsed quietly. Like the low throb of something buried underground.
Later that night, Natalie lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Her room was dim except for the pale spill of moonlight on her desk, where her bag sat untouched.
She could still hear her father chuckling from the living room, watching the late-night comedy he always laughed at too hard. Her mother had retreated to her sewing machine in the back room, humming and stitching as she always did when the house quieted down.
A perfect home. A peaceful family. So why did she feel like she didn't belong in it?
Natalie sat up slowly.
She walked to the desk, unzipped the bag, and pulled out the envelope.
"To Sasha," it still read. The handwriting was firm. Elegant. Almost… loving.
She turned the envelope over.
Unsealed.
Slowly, she pulled the letter free. Then she unfolded it. The handwriting was the same inside—deliberate, careful, as though every word had been measured.
Dear Sasha,
It's strange, isn't it? How time folds over itself—How we can forget the shape of a voice, but not its echo.
You've lived many lives since they changed your name. I've lived only one. Yours.
I am your son.
We spoke long ago. We were given 2 chances. You don't remember—But I do. On the 1st chance, you told me you would find me, even at the end of the world.
So here we are.
Kłodzko. November 2nd.
The foot of the fortress.
At dusk.
Come alone.
There's something beautiful about the end of things. Don't you think?
You. Me. And the End.
—C.B.
Natalie sat on the edge of her bed, the letter trembling in her hands. It wasn't the words that scared her. It was how calm they were. How familiar.
The handwriting was neat, old-fashioned even—like it belonged in another time.
But that line—"I am your son."
She reread it three times, as if one more glance would make it disappear, or turn into something sane.
You told me that you would find me, even at the end of the world.
Her chest tightened.
"No," she whispered, folding the letter in half like it might bite her fingers.
She stood up quickly, paced her room. Her breath was shallow.
A son? She was twenty. She'd never been pregnant. Never even had—
She caught sight of herself in the mirror and stopped. There were tears in her eyes. She hadn't realized. In the hallway, she could hear her father's voice now, booming and warm, laughing as he spoke to her mother. The sound made something twist in her stomach. Safe. Familiar. Human. She wanted to go downstairs, hug them, tell them about the letter, and let them laugh it off.
But she couldn't.
Because a part of her—a part she didn't understand—was already trying to remember. Trying to remember that voice. That name.Sasha.
"Run, Nine," the boy had said. In a voice so soft it might have come from a dream. Or a nightmare.
Natalie pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes.
"Stop," she muttered. "Stop, stop, stop—"
But she couldn't unsee the final line:
You. Me. And the End.