Bernard Lee's footsteps echoed hollowly against the sidewalks of Willow Street, the battered wallet pressing insistently against his ribs with every hurried stride.
It felt heavier than it should have—heavier even than the weight of five hundred thousand dollars could explain.
Like a secret whispering against his skin.
He glanced over his shoulder once.
Twice.
The street stretched out behind him in perfect, sleepy normalcy: shops opening up, mailmen making rounds, old Mr. Pennington watering his sad little petunias.
Nothing unusual.
Nothing to be afraid of.
And yet, Bernard's instincts screamed otherwise.
He tightened his grip on the strap of his messenger bag and quickened his pace.
---
At Gibbons & Cartwright Insurance, the morning unfolded like a careful ballet of tedium.
Desks creaked.
Printers whirred and jammed.
Phones rang with the sluggishness of a Monday despite it being Wednesday.
Bernard slumped into his cubicle, the familiar musty smell of coffee stains and ancient paper welcoming him back like an old, slightly disapproving friend.
He booted up his computer and tried to focus.
Tried to pretend he hadn't just stumbled onto a fortune lying abandoned on the street.
He failed spectacularly.
The wallet's presence in his coat pocket was like a buzzing hornet nest.
Even as he typed out dull insurance claims, his mind spun wild circles:
Turn it in to the police.
No, they'll just think you stole it.
Maybe it's a prank.
Maybe it's a test.
Maybe someone is watching you right now.
Bernard peeked over the edge of his cubicle.
Across the open office floor, Ms. Hardwick, the office manager, was scowling into a spreadsheet.
Harold from Accounting wrestled with the copy machine, muttering curses under his breath.
Janine, the receptionist, filed her nails with deadly precision.
No one was looking at him.
No hidden cameras.
No dramatic unmasking.
Just an ordinary Wednesday.
Bernard exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair, forcing himself to think logically.
---
During lunch, he slipped away to a corner booth at The Hollow Mug, a tiny coffee shop wedged between a tailor and a bookstore.
It was the kind of place that smelled permanently of overcooked espresso and lemon furniture polish, with threadbare armchairs and a jukebox that hadn't worked properly since 1989.
Perfect.
Anonymous.
He ordered a black coffee and unwrapped the wallet again beneath the table, his hands careful, deliberate.
The driver's license was practically an antique.
Issued decades ago, judging by the yellowing plastic and the faded photo of a young man with sharp cheekbones and restless eyes.
Name: Gideon L. Moore.
The receipts puzzled him even more.
Each bore the name of a place Bernard had never heard of:
Rutherford's Curiosities
The Hollow Cup Café
The Painted Door
All were written in the same looping script, neat and old-fashioned, like the handwriting in a dusty ledger.
But the check...
The check seemed impossibly fresh.
The ink was crisp.
The signature at the bottom was bold and confident.
And it was made out "To Bearer," meaning whoever held it could cash it—no questions asked.
Bernard sipped his coffee, scalding his tongue without noticing.
He had two choices, as he saw it:
Cash the check and risk whatever consequences would surely follow.
Turn it over to the authorities and pray they didn't accuse him of theft.
Neither option sat well.
Some part of him—a small, reckless voice he barely recognized—whispered:
This is no accident.
He thought about the old man at the bus stop.
About the strange warning.
About the vanishing act.
Had the two events been connected?
Or was Bernard simply losing his mind?
---
The door of The Hollow Mug jingled as a newcomer entered, trailing a sharp gust of autumn air.
Bernard glanced up—and his heart skipped.
The woman was... odd.
Beautiful, in a wild, disheveled way, like she'd stepped out of a dream someone had half-forgotten.
Her hair was a tumble of dark curls pinned haphazardly at the nape of her neck.
Her coat was far too large, cinched at the waist with a frayed red scarf, and her boots were battered but expensive-looking.
She scanned the room once, quickly, eyes flickering from face to face.
Then, she spotted Bernard.
Their eyes locked.
Something cold and electric zipped through Bernard's veins.
He knew—he knew—she was here because of him.
The woman crossed the room with measured, almost predatory grace.
She slid into the booth opposite him without asking, her movements sharp and economical.
"You found it," she said softly, her voice like velvet laced with steel.
Bernard opened his mouth to protest—Found what? I don't know what you're talking about!—but the words dried up in his throat.
She leaned forward, close enough that he could see the faint scatter of freckles across her nose, the wary intelligence burning in her storm-gray eyes.
"Listen carefully," she said, her tone low, urgent.
"You don't understand what you've stumbled into. You need to come with me. Now."
Bernard's instincts screamed to run.
To bolt from the booth, wallet or no wallet, and leave this strange woman and her too-sharp eyes behind.
But something deeper, heavier, rooted him to the seat.
He swallowed hard.
"Who are you?"
The woman smiled, a thin, humorless thing.
"My name's Mara," she said.
"And if you want to survive the next twenty-four hours, Bernard Lee..."
She tapped the wallet under the table, a single, sharp tap like a judge's gavel.
"...you're going to have to trust me."
---