By morning, the messages felt like a dream.A strange one —the kind that crawls under your skin and stays there, replaying every time your mind goes quiet.
Amara always said the city was loud.But today…it felt louder.
Street vendors shouting prices,minibus conductors calling routes like broken poetry,engines coughing through traffic,music leaking out of half-open shop doors.
But underneath all that noisewas a thin, unsettling silencethat didn't belong.
Amara stepped off the bus and pulled her hoodie tighter,weaving through crowds on Cairo Road.She had a routine —walk fast, don't look anyone in the eye,keep your face blank like a locked phone.
But today her steps were uneven.Her mind was a maze.Her heart kept remembering the message:
I know you, Amara. And I know what's coming.
She tried brushing it off.Tried drowning it in the noise of the city.But every car horn and chatter just felt like static.
She couldn't focus.Not in class.Not during break.Not even when her friends laughed about something she missed.
Because the feeling hadn't left her.That someone — or something — was closer than she could see.
By the afternoon she found herself taking a route she never took.Not home.Not to her aunt's place.Not to school.
Instead…she was walking toward the old bus station,the one everyone called Terminal Dust because it was so forgotten the air always tasted like sand.
The place was practically abandoned —rusted benches,peeling paint,a broken vending machine that still held snacks from last year.
She didn't know why she came.Her feet just… brought her.
The wind blew dust across the concrete,swirling it like a tiny storm.
Amara sniffed and looked around."Why am I here?" she muttered.
A voice echoed inside her head for a second —not a whisper this timebut a tug.A pull.Like someone was guiding her steps.
She shivered.
Her eyes drifted to an old waiting shelter.Its roof was crooked,one of the metal poles bent like someone had tried to break it.
And that's where she saw it.
A notebook.
Black cover.No name.No stickers.Just lying on the bench as if waiting for her.
Her stomach tightened.She looked around.No one.
"Don't," she whispered to herself.
But her feet moved anyway.One step.Two.
The notebook felt warm when she picked it up.Too warm for something that had been sitting outside.
Her breath hitched.
She opened it.
The first page was blank.
The second page… blank.
The third page—
Her heart nearly stopped.
It was her handwriting.
Her name.Her words.Her fears.Things she'd never told anyone.Things she had written on her old diary months ago —the one she'd thrown away when she swore she'd never pray again.
Amara staggered back, notebook clutched in shaking hands.
"What… what is this…?"
She flipped more pages.
Some were past events.Her past events.
But then—
The ink changed.
Darker.Sharper.New.
And the entries weren't from her past anymore.
They were describing things she hadn't done yet.
Events that hadn't happened.Choices she hadn't made.Warnings written in a voice that sounded like herbut felt like someone older,wiser,watching her from a place she couldn't reach.
Her fingertips tingled as she turned another page.
There —written in clean, careful ink:
"Tonight, you will face a decision.A dangerous one.Choose the light, Amara."
Her breath broke.
Her hands trembled violently now.
"What decision?What danger?"
Then she saw something else scrawled under the words —smaller, almost hidden:
Isaiah 41:10
Another verse.Another message.
Her knees felt weak.
She whispered it out of memory,her voice shaking:
"Fear not, for I am with you…"
Her throat tightened.
"No… no no no," she whispered, slamming the journal shut.
This couldn't be real.It couldn't.
But when she looked up,her heart froze.
A man stood across the station.Not moving.Not blinking.Just watching her from a distance.
His clothes were dark.His posture too still.Like he belonged to the shadows.
Amara's breath quickened.
She stepped back.
The man didn't move—but the air around him seemed to shift,like heat rising from a fire.
Her chest hurt.Her pulse hammered.Her feet wanted to run.
She clutched the notebook and whispered,"God, please…"
The wind blew.Hard.As if something unseen rushed past her.
She blinked—and the man was gone.
Not walked away.Not hid.
Gone.
The station was silent again.
But the notebook in her hands throbbed like a heartbeat.
Amara swallowed hard.She didn't know who the man was.Or what the notebook wanted.Or what tonight's "dangerous decision" meant.
But one thing was clear:
Something had found her.Something she couldn't outrun.
And whatever it was…it wasn't done speaking.