Natalie woke before dawn, heart pounding in the heavy quiet of her room. The letter was still there, folded neatly on her desk. She didn't want to touch it, but the memory of the words haunted her like a shadow she couldn't shake.
Sasha... Why do I remember... Why do I feel like I'm Sasha? This letter wasn't for me, but why am I so connected to it? WHY DO I REMEMBER BEING SASHA?!
Natalie then pushed herself up, swung her legs off the bed, pulled on a sweater, and stepped quietly downstairs. Her heart was still pounding from the memory of the letter.
***
The mailbox was on the other side of the front yard, a small metal box mounted on a post near the gate. The street was empty except for the faint sound of early traffic. She walked over, breathing out clouds in the morning chill, and opened the box.
There, waiting like a cruel echo, was another letter. Just like before, it was carefully addressed to "Sasha" with the same neat, deliberate handwriting. The envelope was unsealed, fresh as if it had just been done moments ago.
Natalie's hands trembled as she slid it into her pocket.
Did that boy know I grabbed his letter on the street? How does he know my address? What's benefitting him by sending me one
The morning sun filtered weakly through the heavy curtains, casting a dull, yellowish light across the worn furniture and faded wallpaper. It was a cold day in Warsaw — damp, with that early autumn chill that seeped through the cracks around the window frames.
But Natalie's unease wasn't from the weather. It was something else. Something restless that clung to her like a shadow.
She tried to shake it off, dropping her bag by the coat rack, but the feeling clung, like a whisper she couldn't quite catch.
She glanced toward the window. The street outside was quiet, empty except for the occasional passersby bundled in scarves and coats. Then she saw him. The mailman.
He approached the mailbox—a heavy, green metal box with chipped paint—and dropped something inside. Just one letter. Then he turned and walked away, the soft clack of his shoes on the pavement fading down the street.
Natalie blinked. She hadn't expected him so soon. She pulled the curtain aside and peered out again.
Minutes passed. Then, footsteps. The mailman returned.
Again.
Dropped another letter. Walked on.
Her breath caught.
The morning stretched on, hours dissolving like smoke. And every time the mailman appeared—once, twice, thrice—he delivered the same letter. Same envelope, same neat handwriting addressed to "Sasha." No postage stamp, no postmark. Just the eerie familiarity of that name.
Natalie's fingers trembled as she pulled the curtains closed. She couldn't understand why she hadn't stopped him, why she didn't run outside and ask questions. Instead, she sat stiffly at the kitchen table, the envelope burning cold in her palm.
The walls of the house seemed to shrink, the shadows growing longer and darker. She thought she heard footsteps upstairs, soft and deliberate. But the house was empty—her parents were at work.
She tried to focus on her law textbooks, but the letters kept crowding her mind.
What did "Sasha" mean? Who was this son she'd never known? And why did the words feel like they belonged to her, even when every part of her screamed they didn't?
The letters came again that afternoon. She found three, four, and five identical envelopes in the mailbox. The handwriting was the same—precise, careful, cruelly calm.
She felt trapped. Each letter was a noose tightening around her identity, pulling her into a past she couldn't remember and a future she feared.
She wandered the streets as twilight bled into night, walking the cracked pavement of the old town, past shuttered shops and dimly lit cafés. Her eyes flicked nervously over her shoulder.
A figure lurked in the distance—just at the edge of her vision. Every time she looked, they slipped away like smoke.
Back home, the house felt different—alien. The comforting clatter of her mother's cooking, the soft murmur of her father's voice watching late-night television, all felt distant, like echoes in a dream she was desperate to wake from.
Her hands shook as she slid the latest letter from her bag. She read the words again, tracing the familiar, graceful letters with her finger.
"You've lived many lives since they changed your name. I am your son."
Her breath caught in her throat. The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating.
A son. A past buried so deep that even she had forgotten.
She pressed her back to the cold door, eyes flicking to the window where shadows danced.
Outside, Warsaw hummed—a city unaware of the storm brewing inside one quiet, brick house.
***
Natalie sat at the kitchen table, the letter folded neatly in front of her. The scent of her mother's pierogi and dill stew filled the room, but she barely noticed. Her fingers tapped nervously against the wooden surface, the rhythmic noise grounding her in a way nothing else could.
Her mother hummed softly as she cleared the dishes from dinner. Her father flipped through a newspaper at the other end of the table, occasionally glancing up with a small smile. The warm domesticity was like a fragile shield—one Natalie was desperate to keep intact.
She swallowed hard.
"Mom," she began, voice tentative. "Dad." Her hands twisted in her lap. "I… I think someone's stalking me."
Her mother paused mid-step, a wooden spoon clutched loosely in her hand. Her father folded his newspaper, eyes narrowing in concern.
"Stalking?" Her mother's voice was gentle but edged with worry.
Natalie nodded. "I've been getting letters. Over and over. Same one, addressed to someone named Sasha. And the mailman keeps coming—delivering them. Multiple times a day."
Her father exchanged a glance with her mother, then leaned forward. "Are you sure? Maybe it's some kind of mistake? A prank?"
"It's not a prank." Natalie shook her head. "It's too precise. The handwriting is the same every time. It's… deliberate. Someone is watching me, I know it."
Her mother paused, then let out a soft, almost nervous laugh. "Not a prank? Oh, Natalie…" She shook her head gently, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "You're stressed out with exams. Probably someone playing a prank, nothing more."
Natalie's heart sank. She had hoped for understanding, not dismissal.
"It's just a letter," her mother continued with a warm smile, trying to ease the tension. "Maybe it's from Anka or one of your classmates. You know how they joke around sometimes. Why don't you ask her? Maybe she knows something."
Natalie bit her lip. Anka had been her closest friend since childhood—bright, fiercely loyal, but also practical to a fault.
Her mother waved her hand lightly, still smiling. "Mailboxes get weird mail sometimes, especially with all those prank letters and wrong addresses. Don't let it get to you. You've got exams to focus on."
Her father nodded in agreement but kept a concerned look. "Still, if it's bothering you, we'll keep an eye out. Just don't let it distract you too much, alright?"
Natalie forced a smile, but inside, the knot in her stomach only tightened.
Later that evening, she sat in her room, the unopened letter heavy on her desk. The familiar comfort of the past felt like a fragile veil stretched thin. Outside, the quiet Warsaw night pressed against the windows, carrying whispers that made her shiver.
Somewhere deep inside, she already knew this was no ordinary prank.