Writers 
At exactly 2:17 a.m., Amara received a message from her own number.
DON’T GO TO SCHOOL TOMORROW.
She stared at the screen.
For a few seconds, she thought it was some stupid prank. Maybe one of her friends had somehow cloned her number.
Then another message appeared.
I’M SERIOUS. THEY KNOW YOU REMEMBER.
Amara's stomach tightened.
Remember what?
She typed:
Who is this?
The reply came instantly.
You. Three years from now.
She laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because sometimes, when something is too ridiculous to understand, laughing is easier than being afraid.
She blocked the number.
Then she turned off her phone and forced herself to sleep.
At 7:05 the next morning, Amara woke up to twenty-three missed calls.
All from her own number.
School was unusually quiet.
Amara noticed it immediately.
People whispered when she walked past.
Her best friend, Zara, wouldn't meet her eyes.
Even Daniel—the boy who normally had something sarcastic to say about everything—was staring at her like he'd seen a ghost.
"What?" Amara asked.
Daniel shook his head.
"Nothing."
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"You literally can't lie without scratching your eyebrow."
His hand immediately dropped from his eyebrow.
Amara narrowed her eyes.
"Exactly."
Zara grabbed her arm.
"Come with me."
"Where?"
"Just come."
She pulled Amara into an empty classroom and shut the door.
Then she locked it.
"Zara, what is happening?"
Zara's breathing was uneven.
"Did you get a message last night?"
Amara froze.
"How do you know?"
Zara reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone.
She showed Amara a screenshot.
A message.
From Amara's number.
DON'T TRUST AMARA.
Amara stared at it.
Then at Zara.
"What the hell?"
"I got it at 2:17."
Amara's heart began pounding.
"Who sent this?"
"I don't know."
Another notification appeared on Zara's phone.
They both looked down.
Unknown Number:
She'll find out today.
"What will I find out?" Amara whispered.
The classroom door suddenly rattled.
Someone was trying to open it.
Zara stepped backward.
"Who's there?"
No answer.
The handle moved again.
Then stopped.
A folded piece of paper slid underneath the door.
Amara slowly picked it up.
There was only one sentence written on it.
ASK YOUR MOTHER ABOUT LUCY.
Amara's face went cold.
Lucy.
She hadn't heard that name in years.
Because Lucy was supposed to be dead.
Her older sister.
The sister her mother had always told her had died when Amara was six.
The sister whose photographs had mysteriously disappeared from their house.
The sister nobody was allowed to talk about.
Amara looked at Zara.
"Lucy was real."
Zara swallowed.
"Who is Lucy?"
Before Amara could answer, her phone vibrated.
One new message.
This time, there was a photograph attached.
Amara opened it.
Her breath stopped.
It was an old photograph of two little girls.
One was Amara.
The other was Lucy.
But that wasn't what terrified her.
Behind them stood their mother.
And beside their mother was a man Amara had never seen before.
Written across the bottom of the photograph were four words:
TAKEN ONE WEEK BEFORE SHE DISAPPEARED.
Amara zoomed in.
The man's face suddenly looked familiar.
She had seen him before.
At school.
Yesterday.
He had been standing beside the principal.
Watching her.
And then another message appeared.
NOW YOU KNOW WHY THEY'RE AFRAID OF YOU.
Amara's fingers trembled.
She typed:
Who are you?
The reply came.
I already told you.
I'm you.
And if you want to survive the next three years, you need to find Lucy before they do.
