It started with a note you thought was your own.

A scribble in the margin of your notebook, written in handwriting too neat to be yours: “Meet me by the old train car. 6 PM.”

You blinked, confused. Maybe a prank. Maybe a coincidence.

But the next one came tucked between pages of your lit textbook: “You make Arcadia Bay feel like something worth staying for.”

Your heart skipped.

Then more appeared—on sticky notes, inside borrowed novels, once even etched into the back of a café receipt left mysteriously in your bag. The words weren’t desperate. They were patient. Soft. Certain. Like someone had been watching you closely… and kindly.

And part of you already knew who.

So when you walked to the old train car that evening, hands slightly shaking, you weren’t surprised to see her there—waiting, jacket sleeves rolled up, moonlight in her hair.

Rachel Amber.

She turned to you with a small, knowing smile.

—“I’ve been telling you all along,” she said gently, “just not with words.”