I noticed the file at exactly 2:17 a.m.
Not because it appeared suddenly, but because it felt wrong — like a chair moved slightly out of place in a room you know by heart.
I had been staring at my laptop screen for hours, pretending to write, pretending to be productive. In reality, I was doing what I had done every night for months: scrolling through old drafts, half-finished ideas, abandoned stories that never became anything more than promises to myself.
The folder was called Drafts.
A digital graveyard.
That was where I saw it.
A file I didn't recognize.
The name was simple. Too simple.
Final_Chapter.docx
I frowned.
I knew every file on my laptop. I was obsessive like that. Years of writing had trained me to remember every document, every idea — even the bad ones.
This wasn't one of them.
I let out a dry laugh, rubbing my eyes.
"Very funny," I muttered, assuming it was something I had written years ago during a sleepless night and completely forgotten.
I clicked it.
The document opened instantly.
No loading. No delay.
Just white space and black text.
The first line made my fingers go cold.
Daniel Reed sits alone in his apartment, listening to the hum of the refrigerator while pretending not to think about how empty his life has become.
My breath caught in my throat.
That was my name.
Not a character.
Not a placeholder.
My name.
I slowly lifted my eyes from the screen and looked around the apartment.
The flickering ceiling light above the kitchen sink.
The unwashed mug on my desk.
The steady, irritating hum of the refrigerator behind me.
Everything matched.
I swallowed hard and scrolled down.
He tells himself he is fine. He always does. The lie has become comforting.
My chest tightened.
I hadn't written this.
I was sure of it.
And yet… it sounded exactly like me.
I kept scrolling.
Paragraph after paragraph described my thoughts from earlier that night. My frustration at another rejection email. My fear of becoming irrelevant. The quiet panic that crept in whenever I wondered if this was all my life would ever be.
Then it mentioned something that made my hands tremble.
Even the message he typed — then deleted — to his ex-wife.
I froze.
I hadn't told anyone about that message.
Not a soul.
My heart began to pound, each beat louder than the last. The room felt warmer. Smaller.
I scrolled faster now, my finger shaking against the trackpad.
The writing continued, calm and precise, like an observer who had been watching me for years.
Then I reached the final paragraph.
In seven days, Daniel Reed will die.
I stared at the sentence, waiting for it to change.
It didn't.
Another line appeared beneath it.
And this will be the last thing he ever reads.
The cursor blinked under the words.
Waiting.
I slammed the laptop shut and pushed back from the desk so hard my chair scraped loudly against the floor.
"Enough," I whispered.
The room felt different now.
Heavier.
Colder.
I stood there for a long moment, listening.
Nothing.
Just silence and the distant hum of the city outside.
I checked the clock on the wall.
2:18 a.m.
One minute had passed.
I laughed nervously, running a hand through my hair.
A coincidence.
A prank.
A story my exhausted brain was turning into something more.
I opened the laptop again.
The document was still there.
Still open.
At 3:04 a.m., I was still awake.
I hadn't moved from my chair.
That was when the laptop screen flickered.
Then, without me touching anything, new text appeared at the bottom of the page.
Letter by letter.
Slow.
Deliberate.
He thinks closing the laptop will change something.
My stomach dropped.
I watched, frozen, as another sentence typed itself.
It won't.
I reached forward and yanked the power cord from the wall.
The screen went black instantly.
The room plunged into darkness.
I stood there, breathing hard, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The silence returned.
But this time, it felt different.
Intentional.
I glanced once more at the clock.
Still 2:18 a.m.
One minute had passed.
And somehow… my life had already been written.