I loved my mornings. You know, like in those movies where the heroine walks down the street, the sun barely touching the rooftops, soft jazz playing in her headphones, and life feels absolutely perfect?

That was me. I had my routine, my little traditions that made the world feel predictable and steady.

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Every day started the same: a morning run through the park, a warm shower, my favorite coffee with orange syrup (my signature "orange coffee," as I stubbornly called it), and a walk to work through the bustling city streets.

That morning, the city felt alive. The pre-holiday rush was in full swing. Shoppers were darting in and out of stores, arms filled with glossy bags, street vendors were shouting out their best deals, and children were tugging at their parents’ sleeves, pointing at window displays glowing with fairy lights.

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As I stepped into my usual coffee shop, the owner grinned at me.

“The usual?” he asked, already reaching for the orange syrup.

“You know me too well,” I said, handing him my card.

“Gotta keep my best customer happy,” he winked.

I took a deep inhale of the rich, citrusy aroma before stepping back outside, the warm cup nestled in my hands.

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A few blocks later, I passed the corner where the wood vendor always set up shop. His table was arranged neatly, displaying carved figurines, jewelry boxes, and salt shakers. Each piece was polished to perfection. I had seen him a hundred times before, but never really looked.

That day, something made me stop. My eyes landed on a small wooden pepper mill.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmured, picking it up. “I’ll give it to my mom for Thanksgiving.”

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The man lifted his head slowly. His dark brown eyes locked onto mine, studying me like he was solving a puzzle.

“Thirty dollars.”

I pulled out a fifty and placed it in his palm without waiting for change. “Keep it. Have a great day.”

“Wait.”

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He held out a wooden salt shaker. “Here. Take this to match.”

For some reason, my stomach flipped. “Thank you.”

He didn’t smile back.

***

At work, the day turned into a good whirlwind.

By lunchtime, I had been promoted. The news spread fast, and soon, there were celebratory pastries in the break room, so colleagues stopped by to offer congratulations.

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It felt like one of those moments you want to look back to. But not everyone was celebrating.

Martha sat stiffly at her desk, typing with more force than necessary. I hesitated, then walked over.

“Martha, I know you wanted...”

“If you’re expecting me to congratulate you, forget it,” she cut me off, eyes never leaving the screen. “This position was supposed to be mine. Let’s see how well you handle it.”

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I didn’t let those words sink in too deep. Disappointment makes people say things. So I shrugged.

“Challenge accepted.”

She finally glanced at me. “We’ll see.”

***

That evening, as I stepped up to my apartment door, I noticed something strange. A note.

I pulled it off. One sentence was scrawled in thick, uneven letters:

"You stole my life."

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The hairs on my arms stood up. My eyes darted up and down the hallway. Empty.

I unlocked the door and slipped inside, immediately checking the locks. Once, twice. Then again, just to be sure. I tried to shake it off.

A stupid prank? Maybe Martha being dramatic? But no… this wasn’t her style.

That night, I barely slept.

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My dreams were a jumble of shadows and whispers, of wooden toys and tiny hands offering me something I couldn’t quite see. A dim hallway. A boy’s voice.

And those eyes. Dark, sorrowful, and far too mature for a child.

Then, a whisper, "You stole my life."

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***

I woke up with a heavy head. Something crucial had slipped through my fingers. I could feel it. My eyes landed on the note. It lay on my nightstand, stark against the wood, its message as sharp as when I first saw it.

Who could send something like this?

My mind kept circling back to Martha. She was bitter about the promotion. That much was clear.

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But was she this bitter? Leaving an anonymous threat seems excessive, even for her. That feels different. Personal.

I exhaled sharply, shaking off the unease. Enough. I had bigger things to focus on. Thanksgiving at home. A break from everything.

***

“Finally!” Dad’s voice boomed the second he opened the door. “Your mom was starting to think you weren’t coming.”

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“I’d never miss it,” I said, stepping inside and wrapping my arms around my mother.

She smelled like vanilla, warm spices, and just a hint of her favorite perfume. The scent of home.

“I was getting worried,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “I called, but you didn’t pick up.”

“I just wanted to enjoy the drive without distractions,” I lied, because saying, "I was busy overthinking a note that made my stomach twist," didn’t seem like the best way to start Thanksgiving.

She gave me a half-skeptical look but let it slide.

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Dinner felt like a time capsule of every Thanksgiving before it: Dad telling the same work stories, Mom arguing over the pie crust’s flakiness, me sitting at the table, letting it all soak in.

Safe. Familiar. Like nothing could touch me there. And then... the doorbell rang. We all froze.

“Who could it be? On Thanksgiving?”

Dad frowned, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

A delivery man was standing on the porch, holding a small package.

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“Delivery for Julie,” he said, handing it over.

“There must be a mistake. I didn’t order anything.”

“Your name and address are on it.” He pointed to the label. “Please verify.”

Reluctantly, I took the box and shut the door behind me.

“What is it?” Dad asked, stepping closer.

I peeled back the tape and lifted the lid. Inside lay a small wooden toy car.

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I picked it up, and the second my fingers curled around it, a jolt ran through me. That wasn’t just "any" toy.

I saw it before. In my dreams. A hallway. A whisper.

“Where did this come from?” Mom’s voice trembled.

“Anonymous,” I murmured. “Someone sent it to me. But… why?”

Silence stretched in the room. Dad let out a long, slow sigh and sank into a chair.

“It’s time to tell you the truth.”

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***

We were sitting in the living room. The air felt heavier than before, thick with words left unsaid. I sat across from my parents, gripping the small wooden car in my hands.

“I’m listening,” I finally said.

My mother inhaled sharply. “We wanted you to have a happy life. You were so little when we adopted you.”

I blinked. The word sat between us, cold and unfamiliar.

“Adopted?”

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“We took you from foster care,” she continued, hesitant, like she was testing the weight of each word before speaking.

The world I had known my entire life suddenly felt like a carefully constructed illusion, and someone had just ripped back the curtain.

“This… this must be a mistake. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

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“We wanted you to have a normal life, free from the past,” my father finally spoke. “You were just a toddler, and you adjusted so quickly. At first, you cried sometimes, mostly at night, but then… you forgot.”

Forgot. The word stung.

“And that was okay with you? Just erasing my past?”

“We didn’t erase it,” my mother said quickly, reaching for me, but I leaned back. “We kept your things. We thought that maybe, one day…”

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“One day what?”

“That you’d remember on your own,” my father admitted.

He stood up, crossed the room to a small cabinet, and pulled out a box.

“This is all that remains of your old life.”

Slowly, I lifted the lid. Inside were fragments of a life I didn’t remember: old toys, faded drawings, a notebook filled with messy, childlike scribbles.

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And a photo album. Page after page of unfamiliar images, yet something deep inside me stirred, like a whisper from a forgotten past.

Then, I saw that picture.

A little girl, no older than three, with a sweater far too big for her small frame. She was smiling, but her grip on the hand of the boy next to her was tight and possessive as if she was afraid to let go.

The boy… Thin, curly-haired. Dark eyes that were impossibly deep, too knowing for a child.

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I had seen those eyes before. Not in a photograph. Not in a dream. On the street. In the man selling wooden crafts.

A breath hitched in my throat. My hands clenched around the album. The edges of my reality were blurred, warped.

“Who is this?”

“His name was Samuel.” Dad signed.

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A strange weight pressed against me. “We knew each other?”

“You were inseparable. You promised him we'd adopt both of you. But it never happened,” my father said quietly. “He made two identical cars—one for you, one for himself.”

I looked down at the toy. My mind reeled. Pieces of a forgotten past clicking into place. Samuel. The toy. The note. I had left him behind. A deep, suffocating dread settled over me.

How could I forget him?

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***

The drive home felt longer than ever. My mind started dragging up memories I didn’t know I had.

The dreams... they weren’t just dreams. They were my subconscious trying to remind me of something I had buried long ago. I had forgotten my past. But Samuel… he never did.

Instead of driving home, I turned onto the evening street where his stand was. Samuel was sitting in his old chair, hunched over a wooden block, carving slow, precise strokes with his knife.

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I hesitated. My feet felt heavy when I stepped out of the car and approached him.

"Samuel?"

The carving knife stilled in his hands, his fingers tightening around the wood. He didn’t look up.

"Who’s asking?"

I took another step closer. "It’s me."

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For a second, nothing. Then, slowly, he raised his head. His dark eyes met mine.

"You remember?"

"I didn’t know," I whispered.

"You left. They told me we’d go together. But you got a family. And I stayed behind."

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"I didn’t know. I forgot somewhere. No one told me."

"I've been thinking of you for years. I thought you forgot me. That you chose to leave me there."

Tears burned at the corners of my eyes. "I got the wooden car."

"I sent it to you. I thought… maybe if you saw it, you’d feel something."

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Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy with unspoken words.

"And the note?" I asked softly.

Samuel sighed.

"I saw you that day. When you bought the pepper mill from me. I thought you recognized me. But you just walked away. I got angry. I followed you. Left the note."

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"You followed me?"

"Your office administrator talks too much," he said with a dry chuckle. "Wasn’t hard to send you the gift."

"This won’t change the past, but… can we start again?"

Samuel let out a slow breath. "Maybe we can start with coffee?"

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I smiled through my tears. "Only if you try my Signature Orange Coffee."

A quiet chuckle escaped him. "Still obsessed with weird flavors?"

"And you’re still grumpy?"

He shook his head, but there was warmth in his eyes at that moment. We walked side by side, just like we used to years and years ago.

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***

That coffee was just the beginning.

We started talking. We filled in the missing pieces of each other’s past. The sleepless nights stopped haunting me. I had found the missing part of myself I hadn’t even realized was gone.

A few weeks later, I helped Samuel rent a small space for his first real woodworking shop. He finally had a place of his own.

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One evening, he handed me a new pepper and salt shaker set. This time, he had carved our initials on the bottom.

"So you don’t forget me again," he joked.

I never did.

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