Seattle mornings always smell like rain, even when it isn't raining.
Emily Harper stood by the window of her apartment, looking down at the damp street below. Cars moved past in a quiet rhythm, and people hurried by with paper cups of coffee in their hands, brushing shoulders without ever really seeing one another.
She was one of them.
Twenty-seven years old. An editor at a small publishing house downtown. A life that wasn't bad, but wasn't remarkable either.
On the kitchen table, between an electricity bill and a grocery flyer, lay a white envelope.
Emily was certain it hadn't been there the night before when she came home from work.
Her name was written on it: Emily Harper.
Not printed. Not scribbled casually. It was written in a careful hand that felt strangely familiar, though she couldn't say why.
There was no stamp. No return address. Just her name.
She stared at it for a long moment.
The feeling it gave her wasn't fear. It wasn't excitement either. It was something quieter—unease, maybe.
She opened it.
Inside was a single folded sheet of paper. One short sentence, written in the same handwriting:
Don't marry him.
Emily let out a short, nervous laugh.
"Marry who?" she muttered under her breath.
She wasn't even dating anyone.
She had ended a three-year relationship a few months ago and had spent most of her time either at work or at home with her laptop. Her life was so uncomplicated that the sentence felt like a poorly thought-out joke.
And yet—
Something about the handwriting unsettled her.
She looked at it again. The curve of the letters. The spacing between the words.
Without thinking, she walked to her desk and pulled out her notebook. She flipped to a page where she had written her to-do list from last week.
She placed it beside the letter.
Her breath left her slowly.
The handwriting was similar. Very similar.
Not identical.
But close—like a version of her own writing, only steadier. Older.
"This is ridiculous," she whispered.
She folded the paper carefully and slipped it into her bag.
By noon, she was still thinking about it.
At three in the afternoon, her boss called her into his office.
"Emily, can you take this contract across the street? The author's there and wants it signed today."
She nodded and took the folder.
The café across the street was small and warm, the kind of place where conversations blended into the soft hum of background music.
When she pushed the door open, the small bell above it chimed.
Her eyes scanned the room.
And then she paused.
A man was sitting near the window.
Light blue shirt, sleeves pushed slightly up. Brown hair, just a little messy. A calm face, not striking—but steady.
He looked up and met her eyes directly.
He gave a small smile.
"Emily Harper?"
She stepped closer. "Yes."
He stood and extended his hand. "Daniel Cooper."
His handshake was warm. Confident, but not overpowering.
They spoke for a few minutes about the contract. Simple things. Deadlines. Minor revisions.
Nothing unusual.