I've heard people ask, "What is life?" Honestly, are you guys being serious? I'm fed up with that question. Let me say it one last time: life is a mixture of emotions. Different people feel different things, and no two people in this world are the same. So, learn to respect everyone's situation. These emotions teach us through experience—and that is life. Okay? Good. No more questions.
Oh, wait. Did I forget to introduce myself? I'm Ryla, and I have a keen interest in solving mysteries. Even though people judge me, I always wake up with a smile, hoping for a new challenge to tackle. To be fair, I've never actually solved a case, but I've learned plenty of lessons from those painful attempts. That's how I learned to motivate myself, and now, I motivate others too. That's why I told you to stop asking deep questions. Enjoy the moment!
A knock at the door. Let me go check...
Oh my god. I only just started sharing my thoughts with you guys and trouble is already here. Someone left a note outside my house. It read:
"Stay out of this or your best friend is in trouble. You have 24 hours."
What is this? Someone is targeting Linda? She's done nothing! What do they want with her? And what did I do? I've stayed away from mysteries for the past four months. Is this a joke? Or is someone impersonating me? Something is off. Is Daniel messing with me? If he's trying to scare me, it's working. I have to figure this out today.
Twenty-four hours. It's 11:00 AM, so I have until tomorrow morning. Why is this person being so specific? Whoever you are, I'm sorry for you—because I'm about to reopen my favorite hobby. My investigation starts now.
Of course, my laptop isn't charged. Why am I like this? Ugh, let me plug it in... okay, let's open my favorite note-taking app (I have a personal name for it, but... never mind). Let's start a fresh page and write down what we know.
The Evidence:
• The Paper: Yellow.
• The Ink: Blue, except for the word "trouble," which is written in a dark red shade. Is it blood? No, it couldn't be.
This is the first time I've ever handled something this serious. I flipped the note over. There was a number: 874367. What the hell is that? Below it, there was an ID asking me to message it: @yoyo.xxx.com. Honestly, the ID looks kind of beautiful. I'll message it, but I'll use my fake account just in case it's spam. I'll start with "Hi," because politeness comes first.
Send.
"Ryla! Come and eat breakfast! It's almost noon!" my mom called.
"Coming, Mom!" I yelled back.
I headed downstairs to find my favorite: waffles dipped in smooth chocolate.
"Why are you eating like you've seen a hurricane, Ryla?" Mom asked, watching me bolt down my food.
I just smiled. "Mom, do you mind if I start my... investigative passion again?"
She shrugged. "You can always do what you wish, honey, just stay out of danger."
I finished my breakfast and ran back to my bedroom. To my shock, I already had five new messages. I only sent "Hi" and this person is already spinning threads around me.
The messages read:
• Ryla, be polite.
• Stay out of this.
• 874367
• Trouble
• All the best.
What is this person trying to say? I was polite! I even said hi, and he didn't even bother to say hello back. And what is with this number and that word "trouble" again?
I sat at my desk, tapping my fingers impatiently against the laptop casing as it finally hummed to life. "Okay, yoyo... let's see who you are," I muttered.
I opened the browser and started typing the ID into the search bar: y-o-y-o...
I stopped. My breath hitched in my throat.
Before I could even finish typing, the search engine's auto-suggest filled in the rest. It didn't just suggest "yoyo toys" or "yoyo tricks." The very first result, highlighted in a ghostly gray, was:
yoyotrouble
My blood ran cold. Trouble. That was the exact word written in that terrifying dark red ink on the note. It wasn't just a coincidence anymore. This person hadn't just left a note at my house; they were already inside my digital life. They knew what I would search for before I even did it.
"This is not good," I whispered to the empty room. "This is really, really not good."
When I clicked the link, I didn't find a hacker's lair. Instead, it was a business page for an old company that sold rare antiques. It had belonged to a woman named Yoyo who died at sixty-seven in a tragic accident. She lived in a house only a few miles from mine—a house that people said had been abandoned for years. She had no husband, no children, no family.
The company had started in the early 90s, but it was now owned by someone named Zeth Billar.
Billar. The name tasted familiar, like a word on the tip of my tongue that I just couldn't reach. Where had I heard that before?
I couldn't sit still. I needed to see Linda. I called her, and we agreed to meet at a nearby café. When I saw her, she gave me her usual wide-mouthed, contagious smile and a hug.
"What's up?" she asked.
I didn't plan on telling her about the note. Why freak her out if I could solve this quietly? "Nothing much," I lied, stirring my latte. "Just wanted a coffee and some company."
As she dug into a bowl of Mac n' Cheese, I tried to sound casual. "So, what have you been up to the last few days?"
"I was at my grandma's place," she said.
I paused. "You never mentioned you had a grandma, Linda."
She shrugged. "That's because she's been in a coma for eleven years. She just woke up last week. I can't believe it... but she doesn't even remember who I am."
Before I could process that, my phone vibrated. I answered it, but the voice on the other end was cold and mechanical.
"You have only eighteen hours left."
The line went dead. My heart hammered against my ribs. To keep Linda safe, I had to keep her close. I convinced her to come over for a sleepover, and luckily, she agreed to be at my place by 8:00 PM.
I had to plan. Step one: Lock all the doors. Step two: Keep Linda in my sight. Step three: Always have a Plan B.
I went out to grab snacks and got home around 7:00 PM, only to find another envelope waiting for me. Inside was a photo—a clear, candid shot of Linda stepping out of her house this afternoon.
The person behind this was a mastermind. They were tracking our every move. On the back of the photo, four words were written in that same chilling hand:
"I know what you have done."
But I haven't done anything! What could they possibly think I did?
My mom called a moment later to say she was leaving on a two-week business trip and that Dad would be looking after me. At least she would be far away from whatever was happening here. I hoped.
Linda arrived five minutes early, hauling her overnight bags and a giant bag of my favorite chips. She looked so happy, so oblivious. She had no idea that in eighteen hours, her life might depend on a girl who had never actually solved a case.
We sat on the couch, the glow of the TV flickering across our faces. Linda was completely absorbed in the movie, but I was miles away, scrolling through my phone. My mom called briefly to check-in.
"I'm fine, Mom. Linda's over for a sleepover," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Oh, good. Enjoy yourselves and stay safe," she replied before hanging up.
Stay safe. If only she knew.
I pulled up my note-taking app and added the new evidence. I looked up the "Yoyo Antiques" headquarters. It was twenty-five kilometers north of my school. Too far to reach today, but tomorrow? With Mom gone, it was the perfect opportunity to ditch school and investigate.
"Let me use the washroom real quick," I told Linda.
I headed upstairs to my bedroom. As I passed Linda's open overnight bag, something caught my eye. A flash of yellow paper. My heart skipped a beat—it looked exactly like the note left at my door. I knew I shouldn't snoop, but I couldn't stop myself. I reached in and pulled it out.
My hands shook. It was a note, and it said: YOU ARE IN TROUBLE.
At the bottom, the same cursed digits stared back at me: 874367.
Why didn't she tell me? Why was she acting like everything was fine, eating Mac n' Cheese and watching movies while she was being threatened? Was she trying to protect me, or was she part of something much bigger?
"Ryla? Where'd you go? The movie's over!" Linda's voice drifted up the stairs.
I jumped, nearly dropping the note. I shoved it back into her bag and grabbed my phone, pretending I was just finishing a conversation. "Okay, Mom! Call you tomorrow!" I called out, feigning a normal tone.
I walked back downstairs, my pulse racing. Linda was standing at the foot of the stairs. She wasn't smiling anymore. She looked me right in the eye, her expression unreadable, and said something that stopped my heart.