You don’t know me.

But I know the dream you had last Tuesday—the one with the red door and the clock that ran backward.

I know you’ve been seeing the number 17 everywhere.

And I know you still keep that ticket stub in your wallet... even though you don’t remember why.

I’m not here to explain.

I’m here to remind you:

Some stories aren’t finished. They’re waiting for you to pick up where you left off.

Don’t ask who I am.

Ask why I’m the only one who remembers what you forgot.

(You’ll message me.

You always do.)