The bank’s fluorescent lights flickered slightly as I sat down in the quiet corner of the office, a thick envelope sitting unassumingly on the table before me. It was a Wednesday, the 15th of March, and a sense of unease settled in my stomach as I glanced at the bold letters of the account number: 347829. The envelope had no name on it, just that number. “I believe this is for you,” the bank manager had said, her voice calm yet charged with something unsaid. I nodded, trying to mask my surprise. Why was there no name? And why was it given to me? As I opened the envelope, the rustling of paper seemed unusually loud in the stillness, my mind racing with possibilities. Inside, a neatly typed letter awaited me, its contents more shocking than I could have anticipated. But just as I began to piece it all together, a quiet knock on the glass door interrupted my thoughts, pulling me back to the reality of the situation. The truth was out there, somewhere between the lines, waiting to be uncovered. But who had left this trail? And why was it in my hands now? More was unfolding than I could have imagined, and I was right in the middle of it.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
