Chapter 1 — The Wrong Number

Clara

The text arrived just as Clara was about to lock her phone and leave the office. The screen lit up against the dim glow of her desk lamp, the soft buzz breaking the sterile quiet of the nearly empty workspace. She glanced down absentmindedly, expecting a reminder from Dani or a notification from her task manager app. Instead, the preview revealed the first few lines of a message—poetic, raw, and completely unexpected.

*“I still see you in every passing shadow, like the sunlight hasn’t forgiven me yet.”*

Her brow furrowed as she unlocked the phone, curiosity overriding the exhaustion that had weighed on her all day. The full message expanded across the screen.

*“I still see you in every passing shadow, like the sunlight hasn’t forgiven me yet. I don’t know what I thought sending this would accomplish, but maybe it’s enough that I remember. That I’m sorry.”*

For a moment, Clara forgot to breathe. The words hung in the air, delicate and haunting, as if they could shatter under the weight of her gaze. They didn’t belong to her—she knew that instantly. Yet somehow, they felt like they did, as though they’d been pulled from the recesses of her own unspoken thoughts. An ache bloomed in her chest, faint but insistent, a whisper of longing she hadn’t let herself acknowledge in years.

The sender’s name read simply as “Unknown.”

Clara’s thumb hovered over the screen. Ignoring it would be easy. Logical, even. It wasn’t her business, and she had no desire to wade into someone else’s heartbreak. But the text lingered in her mind like a half-remembered melody, its rawness striking a chord she couldn’t quite name. Why had it unsettled her so deeply? Why did it feel like the words had been meant for her, even though they clearly weren’t?

Her gaze flicked to the sketchbook peeking out from her bag. For months, it had sat untouched, a silent testament to her creative stagnation. She hadn’t been able to draw, not really, not in the way she used to. Somewhere along the line, the spark had dimmed, snuffed out by endless deadlines and the monotony of her corporate routine. But now, something stirred—a flicker of curiosity, of possibility.

Finally, she began to type, her fingers hesitant, as though the act of responding might disrupt the fragile intimacy of the moment.

*“Hi. I think you might have the wrong number.”*

She stared at the message, her thumb poised over the send button. What if they didn’t reply? Or worse—what if they did? With a quick exhale, she hit send. The little blue bubble appeared, and with it came a flutter of nerves that felt strangely exhilarating.

The dots appeared almost immediately—typing. Then they disappeared. Then reappeared.

Clara straightened in her chair, her pulse quickening.

*“Oh, God. I’m so sorry. This is mortifying.”*

A laugh escaped her lips, surprising even herself. The sound broke the stillness of the office, light and unexpected, like sunshine through a crack in heavy clouds. She typed back quickly.

*“No need to be mortified. It happens.”* After a pause, she added, *“For what it’s worth, it was a lovely message.”*

The dots returned, then stopped, then returned again. Clara pictured someone pacing nervously, their phone clutched tightly in their hand. The thought made her smile.

*“Thanks... I guess. It wasn’t meant to be sent, but I appreciate that. Sorry again for invading your evening with my melodrama.”*

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, her mind weighing the words. She hesitated, then typed the first thing that came to her.

*“It’s not melodrama if it’s heartfelt.”*

The response felt too earnest the moment she sent it, but she didn’t regret it. Not entirely. The words felt honest, like something she needed to hear herself.

Her phone buzzed almost instantly.

*“You’re kind. Thanks for not making me feel like a total idiot. I’ll leave you alone now. Have a good night.”*

Clara stared at the screen, the conversation already over. She should have felt relieved—pleased even—that the awkwardness had resolved so quickly. Instead, a strange hollowness settled in her chest, as though she’d let something slip away before she even knew what it was.

With a sigh, she locked her phone and tucked it into her bag. “Get it together, Clara,” she murmured to herself. It was just a text. Nothing more.

The office was eerily quiet as she stood and gathered her things. Most of her coworkers had left hours ago, leaving her alone with the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the muted glow of the city beyond the glass walls. Her desk, meticulously organized, felt like an extension of the monotony that had crept into her life—a life measured in deadlines and client pitches, with little room for anything else.

On her way out, her gaze lingered on the sketchbook in her bag. The thought of opening it felt both comforting and daunting, like revisiting an old friend after years apart.

Outside, the city greeted her with its usual cacophony of sounds and scents. The air was crisp, tinged with the faint aroma of rain-soaked pavement and freshly brewed coffee. Overhead, the sky was a canvas of amber and violet, the last traces of sunlight fading behind the skyline. Clara tightened her scarf and started toward the subway, her sneakers scuffing against the cobblestones.

As she walked, the text replayed in her mind, its rawness echoing in a way that unsettled and intrigued her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d allowed herself to feel that deeply about anything, let alone express it. The thought lingered like an unanswered question, tugging at the edges of her consciousness.

At the subway station, the rush of an arriving train ruffled her hair as she descended the stairs. The platform was crowded with the usual mix of commuters, their faces illuminated by the glow of their phones. Clara found a spot near a pillar and leaned against it, her bag pressing into her back. The sketchbook inside felt heavier than it should, its presence a quiet but persistent reminder.

Her phone buzzed again. She pulled it out, half expecting another message from *Unknown.* Instead, it was Dani.

*“Dinner tomorrow. My place. Bring wine. No excuses.”*

Clara’s lips curved into a faint smile. Dani’s texts were always like this—direct, unrelenting, and impossible to argue with. She typed back a quick *“Fine”* and slipped the phone into her bag.

The train roared into the station, and she boarded, finding a seat by the window. As the city blurred past, her thoughts drifted back to the sender of the poetic text. She imagined them sitting in a dimly lit room, surrounded by books and papers, their emotions spilling out in metaphors. They seemed the type to be poetic without trying, their words unguarded and unfiltered.

“You’re romanticizing a stranger,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head. But the thought lingered, stubborn and persistent, like the faintest spark catching on dry kindling.

When she reached her apartment, the familiar coziness of the space greeted her. The mismatched furniture, the overflowing bookshelf, the small table by the window—it all felt like fragments of a life she’d put on hold. The table, once her favorite spot to sketch, was now cluttered with unopened mail and empty coffee mugs.

She dropped her bag onto the floor and hesitated. Slowly, she pulled out the sketchbook, her fingers brushing against the textured cover. Flipping it open, she found half-finished sketches, their lines tentative and incomplete. For months, she hadn’t been able to finish anything, her self-doubt stopping her before she could even begin.

But tonight, something was different. Sitting down, she picked up a pencil and let it hover over the page. The words from the text echoed in her mind, and her hand began to move. Shadows, light, the faint outline of a figure blurred at the edges.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

And for the first time in months, Clara felt a flicker of life, like the sunlight was starting to forgive her, too.