I left something behind. I didn’t know what it was, only that I had to go back. The meeting had been strange—spiritual, maybe?—but more than anything, confusing. I wasn’t sure why I had been invited.
It was forty miles from home, far enough that returning wouldn’t be easy. But I stepped onto the train anyway, hoping I’d figure out a way to recover whatever I had lost. The problem became clear almost immediately: going back later wasn’t practical. I’d made a mistake.
I stepped off the train, expecting to turn back. But the station had already disappeared behind me. My map flickered, useless. No Ubers available. I walked.
That’s when I saw a small business on the corner. Maybe someone there could help.
Inside, the owner barely glanced at me—too busy, too distracted. At first, I thought I recognized him—something about the set of his jaw, the way he glanced up without making eye contact. It wasn’t until he turned away that I placed it. John.
The resemblance was uncanny. I wanted to show him a picture—to prove it. When I asked, he waved me into a lunchroom and slipped into his office. The door clicked shut.
His employees were on break, watching me. They were polite at first, nodding as I scrolled through Facebook to find a photo of John. But Facebook wouldn’t let me search. My only option was endless scrolling, post after post, none of them relevant. I pulled out a mini-laptop, but it had the same problem.
I turned to the employees. “Are you having this issue too? Facebook isn’t letting me search.”
No one answered. A woman began reading something aloud—a prayer, maybe, or a passage from a book. The others stopped what they were doing and listened. Not out of curiosity, but obligation. Someone nodded along, just enough to be seen. No one hesitated. No one looked at me.
When I asked again, their discomfort solidified into something firmer. A man with a beard, mid-thirties, stood up and walked toward me. “It’s time for you to leave,” he said.
That’s when he made a mistake.
He mentioned the meeting at Claire’s. The one I had just attended.
I hadn’t told anyone about that.
I looked at him. “You were there.”
For a moment, he hesitated, then sighed. “Yeah. There was an error in how they prepared attendees.”
I thought about the confusion I’d felt, the sense that I was missing crucial information. “They asked me to read a book,” I said. “But I found it heavy going.”
His voice dropped to a near whisper. “It’s good you made an effort,” he said. “Some people didn’t prepare at all.”
“And?”
He glanced at the others, then back at me. “We had to kill them.”
The words landed softly, like he was reading from a policy manual. My breath hitched. The fluorescent light above hummed louder, or maybe it had always been this loud. I fought the urge to glance at the others, to see if they were waiting for me to nod. To agree. To pretend this made sense. To prove I understood. Even when I didn’t.
I swallowed. “What should I do?”
“Read the book.”
“Anything else?”
He nodded. “I can get you some additional pamphlets.” Then he walked toward the door, slipping outside with brisk purpose.
I followed, stepping onto the sidewalk to wait. The owner of the business came out too, watching me, making sure I didn’t try to re-enter.
And that’s when I saw it.
He didn’t look like John at all.
But I had already believed he did.
Reflections & Implications
We like to think we wake up when we open our eyes. But maybe the confusion, the disorientation, the creeping awareness that something is deeply wrong—maybe that follows us. Maybe it never leaves.
Lately, reality feels like a dream in the worst way. Directions don’t make sense, help is never really help, and the people we thought we recognized turn out to be strangers. There’s a system in place, one we aren’t fully prepared for, and those who don’t play by the rules risk more than just confusion.
So we do what we can. We keep moving, keep searching, keep trying to make sense of it all.
And we read the book. Whatever that means.
Because we’re still trying to wake up.