The next day, I arrived at Elm Street Park early, my mind a whirl of anticipation and nerves. I found a bench with a good view of the entrance and waited, watching as joggers and dog walkers passed by, oblivious to the small drama unfolding in their midst. Noon came and went, and I began to worry that she had changed her mind or that something had happened to her. Just as I was about to give up, I saw her approach. She looked different in the daylight, less mysterious, more like a child playing at being an adult. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said, sitting down beside me. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t explain before. It’s complicated.’ I nodded, encouraging her to continue. ‘The note was meant for you,’ she said, ‘but it wasn’t written by me. Someone else told me to give it to you. They said you’d know what to do when the time came.’ Her words left me reeling. Who could be orchestrating this, and why?
I pressed her for more details, but she claimed to know nothing more. ‘They just said you’d be able to help,’ she insisted. ‘And that you’d find them when you needed to.’ I left the park with more questions than answers, the mystery deepening with every new piece of information. Who were ‘they,’ and what did they want from me? I resolved to dig deeper, to follow the breadcrumbs until I uncovered the truth.
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