The next morning, I woke to sunshine slashing through my curtains like an accusation. Last night's strange chorus, mysterious envelopes, and cryptic encouragement felt distant, as if my dreams had misplaced all the day's weirdness somewhere behind their filing cabinets. But a quick glance at the umbrella—damp and leaning against my dresser like a silent conspirator—confirmed it had, indeed, happened.
Am I the type who checks under the bed for secret cameras now? Is paranoia part of my new observational study regimen?
Too early for philosophy, not too late for breakfast. I shuffled into the kitchen, determined to regain some normalcy. As I assembled a questionably edible sandwich—peanut butter, cheese, and leftover lettuce, no regrets—I tried not to anticipate the universe's next curveball.
But when you're waiting for the unexpected, ordinary feels suspicious.
At 8:16 a.m., a knock. Three crisp raps. I considered ignoring it (a classic Alec move), but curiosity won. I glanced through the peephole: my neighbor, the umbrella-wrestler from yesterday, holding a Tupperware.
"Morning, Alec," she said, her smile too wide for this hour. "I made extra cinnamon rolls. Peace offering for the recycling bin incident?"
She handed me the container. And a small, cream-colored note winked from beneath the lid.
My heart did a double take.
Once inside, I poked at the rolls and unfolded the note. Only one line in that now-familiar, sharp handwriting:
"When offered a gift, create a challenge. Be bold."
I eyed the cinnamon rolls. What did that even mean? Reject breakfast? Counter-offer my dubious sandwich?
I set the rolls on a plate, grabbed another, and headed back to my neighbor's door. Boldness, apparently, was today's theme.
She answered, curiosity flickering. "Back so soon?"
"Let's make it interesting," I said, offering her my creation. "Trade you one cinnamon roll for the world's most confusing sandwich. No backing out. Rules of engagement."
She seemed startled—and then she laughed. "Only if you eat it, too."
We swapped, took synchronized bites. Hers were sticky and delicious, mine… not winning any popularity contests.
I grinned through the horror. "Not bad, right?"
She made a face. "It's… unforgettable."
We both laughed, genuine and unguarded. In the awkward silence that followed, the weight of surveillance—real or imagined—felt lighter. Maybe the universe didn't care about grand gestures, just the courage to step outside your comfort zone in the presence of another human.
Back in my apartment, as I washed down the sandwich aftermath, my phone blinked.
"Boldness acknowledged. Observation ongoing. Anticipate complications."
There's always a catch. But for the first time, I didn't dread it.
Bring it on, universe. Just, maybe—no more sandwich challenges.
End of Chapter 4