The café in the photograph haunted Lena.
She couldn't stop staring at it—Café Lumière, printed clearly behind her smiling face. But the article she read the night before confirmed it: the café no longer existed. It had been destroyed in a gas explosion five years ago. And Jay… Jay had died there.
But she had never been to that café. She had no memory of the day in the photo. And if Jay had died five years ago, how had she fallen in love with him after?
Nothing made sense.
She stared at her laptop screen, zooming in on the image again. Her eyes scanned every detail—the coffee mugs, the plants in the corner window, the faded "Open" sign. In the background, a couple sat at a table, their faces blurred. She almost looked away—until she noticed something.
A man.
Standing near the café entrance.
Facing the camera.
Staring directly into the lens.
Her breath caught in her throat.
It was Jay.
But he looked different. His hair was shorter. His face thinner. And he was wearing a dark jacket with a patch—something military? She couldn't be sure. Her fingers shook as she printed the image and circled the figure.
Who took this photo?
And how had it ended up at her door?
The next morning, Lena visited the city archives. If she was going to get answers, she had to dig deeper. She requested every news report, building permit, and photograph related to Café Lumière. The clerk handed her a thick folder.
She sat at a corner desk and began flipping through pages.
Explosion details. Fire marshal's notes. A list of the deceased.
Her heart stopped at the third name:
Donovan, J.
It even listed his date of birth. Jay's.
But beside it, someone had scribbled in red pen: "Body never recovered."
Lena stared at the note, her fingers tightening around the paper. A memory surfaced—Jay once telling her he hated being cold, that the ocean gave him nightmares. She used to laugh at that. But now…
Had he faked his death?
Was this some elaborate setup?
She opened the last section of the file—photos recovered from bystanders. Among them, one photo made her stomach drop.
The same couple from the photo on her windowsill.
But in this version, the angle was different—captured from across the street.
And Lena wasn't in it.
Only Jay.
Alone.
She didn't understand.
How could she be in one version and not the other?
And then she saw the time stamp: June 14, 2018.
That was before she even met Jay.
The world seemed to shift beneath her.
Back at home, she sat in the dark, clutching both photographs. She laid them side by side.
In one, she and Jay sat laughing.
In the other, Jay sat alone.
Same location. Same clothes. Same angle.
One with her. One without.
Like two timelines.
Or two versions of the truth.
Her phone buzzed again.
Another unknown number.
"You weren't supposed to remember."
Lena's chest tightened. She typed back:
"Who is this?"
No reply.
The screen went black for a moment. Then lit up again.
An image. A video, actually.
She hit play.
It was her.
Asleep.
In her bed.
From inside her apartment.
She gasped and dropped the phone. Her blood ran cold.
She wasn't alone.