I should’ve listened. When my sister Lily gave me a note at the airport, warning me not to board the plane and to “look for the black square,” I ignored her and got on anyway. From the cabin window, I saw the same black square on the tarmac and realized something was deeply wrong.
I left the plane and the airport, shaken, and reread her message. It showed a distorted drawing of our family home with one window crossed out and the same black square marked like a warning. Lily, who I hadn’t spoken to in years, had always been sensitive to things I dismissed as paranoia.
I was supposed to be starting a new life in London, but now I felt like I was being watched. A man in a suit near security stood beside a maintenance door marked with the same black square. That’s when I knew it wasn’t coincidence—it was real.
I turned away from my flight and stepped back into the city. The “safe” life I was chasing felt like a trap. The black square wasn’t just a warning—it was a key to something tied to my family and my past.
I disappeared into the night, no longer running. I was hunting for answers, for Lily, and for the truth behind the pattern that had been following us all along.