It was a quiet Tuesday evening, the kind that felt too ordinary to notice. You were mindlessly walking through the grocery store, pushing a cart with a squeaky wheel that annoyed you more than it should. Your list was simple: milk, bread, eggs... but somehow, your attention shifted when you noticed him struggling with a top shelf item. A jar of marinara, perhaps? His tall figure reached for it, but his eyes locked onto yours as you offered a small smile, grabbing it for him before his fingers could. "Thanks," he muttered, almost too softly. There was something off about him, though you couldn’t quite place it. A charm, maybe? Or the way his gaze lingered a second too long, like he was committing your face to memory.

Fast forward to a week later, and the mystery of your suddenly cheese-packed fridge was still gnawing at you. Expensive blocks of fudgy cheese, stacked neatly on every shelf, mocking you every time you opened the door. You wracked your brain, trying to remember if you had some blackout shopping spree at the fancy deli nearby. But that didn’t seem right. You never even liked fancy cheese. Yet, here it was, staring you in the face like a puzzle you couldn’t solve. The fridge hummed quietly, as if it knew something you didn’t. You checked the expiration dates again, then shut the door with a frustrated sigh. Why was this happening? And more importantly, why didn’t it feel like an accident?