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The cursor jumps—on its own—to [DECLINE] .

The terminal types one final line before the screen goes black: "He asked us to protect you from yourself. Goodbye, [YOUR NAME]. He loved you. Don't come looking for the link again. It will find you only once." Your inbox refreshes. The email is gone. The link is gone. For a moment, you can't remember why you woke up at 3:47 AM. You check your phone. No new messages.

You move the mouse toward [ACCEPT] .

And you have the strangest feeling that it never was.

The subject line lands in your inbox at 3:47 AM on a Tuesday. No sender name, just a string of characters: s12 bitdownload ir . s12 bitdownload ir

But in the morning, you can't find your favorite mug—the chipped blue one your father gave you. You search the whole kitchen. It's simply not there.

[ACCEPT] [DECLINE]

You stare at your father's last voicemail still echoing in your skull. You think about his laugh. The way he salted his eggs. The argument you had about nothing the last time you saw him.