July 27th, 2026
At the apartment - 11:09 PM
The room was dark, save for the soft, flickering light of Ian's desk lamp.
Outside, the Tokyo night breathed quietly—muted sirens in the distance, the occasional hum of a passing car, and the steady drip from a leaky gutter. Inside, it was still.
Ian sat at his desk, back hunched, eyes hollow. He had changed into his usual old shirt and joggers after work, but the exhaustion in his bones still hadn't left him. He rubbed his temples, then slowly reached for his laptop.
It was old, cracked on the corners, the trackpad half-busted. But it worked. And tonight, for reasons he didn't quite understand, Ian felt the need to open a door he had long kept shut.
With a quiet click, the screen lit up.
The familiar login screen. His fingers hesitated over the keyboard, then typed in the password without thinking.
As the desktop loaded, Ian felt a strange tightness in his chest. He clicked on the icon for social media—the social media. The one platform that connected people all across the globe. He hadn't touched it in years. Hadn't dared.
Until now.
The home page opened. New interface. Different layout. But the same memories lurking in every pixel.
He logged in on his account, same profile photo for many years, few friends, mostly his co-workers at McDizzle.
He typed the name of the orphanage: St. Evelyn's Home for Children – Charleston, South Carolina.
There it was.
The logo hadn't changed.
Neither had the main photo - a faded picture of kids playing in a grassy field, their smiles immortalized by time. Ian scanned it slowly, his eyes narrowing, heart pounding.
He typed the first name: Ricky Nunez.
Search.
The results popped up.
A man in his late twenties, fit, clean-cut, standing beside a wife and two little girls. Big house. White fence. Birthday parties. Promotions. Laughter captured in curated photos.
Ian's lips trembled into a faint smile. "Good for you, Ricky."
Next name: Devonte Harris.
A page loaded.
High school football coach. Married his high school sweetheart. Moved to Georgia. His bio read: "Every kid deserves a coach who believes in them."
Ian blinked twice. The weight in his chest grew heavier.
Next: Ellie Park.
She was living in New York. An artist now. Bright, colorful posts filled her feed—murals, exhibitions, charity work. She even had a few thousand followers.
Ian chuckled under his breath. "You always said you'd paint the world."
One by one, he searched them all.
Each name opened another chapter of someone else's happy ending. Their lives moved on. Flourished. They had families, careers, homes. Smiles.
And him?
He had burnt fingertips, an empty fridge, and a threat of eviction.
Still, there was one more person he wanted to see.
One name he had saved for last.
Ms. Marlene Whitaker.
She wasn't a friend.
She was more than that.
The caretaker of St. Evelyn's. The heart of the orphanage. A second mother to the children who had none. To him.
She was the one who held him when he had nightmares. Who gave him an extra slice of bread when she thought no one was looking. Who told him he mattered—even when he felt invisible.
He typed her name in slowly.
The search yielded one profile.
The photo was recent—she had more gray in her hair, her cheeks a little thinner, but the same warm eyes, the same smile. She lived in Florida now. Retired. Posted pictures of her dog, her garden, and occasionally old photos from the orphanage.
Ian stared at the screen for a long, long time.
He hovered his cursor over the "Message" button.
His heart thudded.
Do it, a part of him whispered. Tell her you're okay. Thank her. Say something.
But another voice, colder and crueler, echoed louder. What if you're just a reminder of her failures? What if you bring her sadness instead of peace? What if she's moved on too?
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply.
Then… ping.
A message.
From someone not on his friend list.
He frowned. Clicked.
And there it was.
That message.
That voice he hated recognizing instantly.
"I know you love surprises, my Ian. So I gave you one. <3"
A black heart.
Always that damn shadow heart.
Ian froze, staring at the screen. The words were innocent on the surface. Soft. Playful. Loving.
But behind them was a threat. An invasion. A game.
Ruth.
She knew.
She always knew.
She always know everything. His accounts. He blocked Ruth several times, but she seemed to find ways to contact him. No names. No clues. And still—there she was.
Watching.
Always watching.
The weight of her obsession came crashing down again. Like a blanket soaked in gasoline, suffocating and ready to ignite.
Ian pulled the cord to shut his PC instantly.
He sat back in his chair, exhaling slowly through his nose, eyes shut tight.
His peaceful five-day reprieve? Over.
She was still there. In the walls. In the wires. In the silence.
And just like that… the storm was back.
But worse than her message, worse than her presence, was the realization that clawed at his gut:
He didn't feel scared.
He felt tired.
So tired.