I didn't sleep that night. Not because I didn't try—I did. I even did that thing where you fold your pillow like a taco and pretend it's a comfort burrito of normalcy. Didn't work.
Because every time I blinked, I saw her.
The kid. Blonde curls. Calling me "Dad."
I didn't know her. But she knew me.
And that memory DropDead Express shoved into my brain? Yeah, still there. Like an emotional hangnail I couldn't stop picking at.
At 4:43 a.m., the app buzzed again.
NEW DROP: CLIENT - RAY ALVAREZ. PACKAGE: PERSONAL. LOCATION: YOUR APARTMENT.
Oh good. We're doing that now.
The package was already there, sitting on my kitchen table. Same black wax-paper wrap. Same eerie hum, like a refrigerator trying to harmonize with a demon.
But this one had a note:
"OPEN WHEN READY TO REMEMBER."
I stared at it for five minutes before doing the responsible thing: putting it in the fridge next to some expired yogurt and a half-eaten banana I pretended I'd finish later.
Spoiler: I didn't.
By noon, the humming had gotten louder. My fridge was vibrating. The banana had fled. Probably dimension-hopped to a better kitchen.
I gave up and opened the damn package.
Light. Sound. Static.
And then:
A living room I didn't recognize. A dog I'd never owned. A birthday cake with my name on it—but decorated in handwriting I knew wasn't mine.
I was inside the memory.
Except I wasn't me.
I was watching me. From across the room.
I looked happy. Relaxed. I wore a cardigan.
(That's how you know it wasn't real. No way I'm a cardigan guy.)
A voice behind me:
"You chose the job. You forfeited the rest."
I turned. It was the Manager. But... younger. Kinder? His eyes held galaxies. And something else.
Regret.
"This is one of your might-have-beens," he said. "One of a thousand. You delivered yourself to yourself. That's what the package was. A window."
"Why show me this?"
"Because you needed to remember what you could have been. Before the next step."
"Which is?"
He smiled. "Delivering to the past."
I snapped awake on my kitchen floor. My nose hurt. My elbow was inexplicably coated in mustard.
The package was gone.
But the memory? Still vivid. Too vivid.
A knock at the door.
I opened it, half-expecting my mirrored self, or maybe the cardigan version of me with a list of regrets.
Nope.
It was a delivery guy. DropDead Express uniform. Same as mine.
But younger. Fresher. Less haunted.
"Package for Ray Alvarez?"
He handed me a box.
Same wax paper. Same hum.
"Thanks," I said. "You new?"
He nodded. "Just started today. Weird job, huh?"
I looked at him for a long moment.
"Yeah," I said. "Weird job."
He turned to go.
But just before the elevator doors closed, he looked back.
"Hey, you ever deliver something to yourself?"
I froze.
"Once. Didn't end well."
He chuckled. "Yeah, same here."
Then he was gone.
I turned to the new package. No label. No note.
Just my reflection in the black wax paper.
Smiling back at me.
I sat down and stared at it. I felt something twitch under my skin. Something... remembered.
I picked up my phone, hoping to distract myself. A new notification flashed:
SCHEDULE UPDATE: NEXT DROP IN 2 MINUTES.
What? That wasn't normal. I always had at least an hour between jobs. Sometimes more.
Then the lights flickered.
The hum from the package intensified until it was a scream only my bones could hear.
Another note appeared on my screen:
DESTINATION: UNKNOWN. CONTENTS: YOUR CHOICE.
"What does that even mean?" I muttered.
And then the wax paper package twitched.
I watched, transfixed, as it unfolded itself—petal by petal like a grotesque flower—revealing...
Nothing.
Just a void.
A swirling, memory-sucking, identity-questioning void.
It pulled at me—not physically, but mentally. Like it was hungry for something I hadn't decided yet.
I stood there for a long time, letting the whispering wind of forgotten lives brush past me.
A thousand futures. A thousand Rays. Some better. Some worse. All of them… me?
Finally, I whispered into the void:
"I choose this one. The messy one. The one with fear and dead bananas. The one with mystery packages and impossible jobs."
The void blinked.
And then it was gone.
The package folded closed. Normal. Silent.
The screen on my phone flashed one last time:
DELIVERY COMPLETE. CLIENT: ACCEPTED.
I sat down, exhaled slowly, and reached for the phone again.
Then I paused.
Was I the same Ray as before?
Or just the next one in line?
I didn't have an answer.
But the app was already buzzing again.
And the job, as always, wasn't done.