It had been one of those nights—the kind where every second felt stretched too thin. Calls stacked on calls. Screaming. Static. Pleading voices cutting through the headset.

Being a dispatcher’s like drowning on dry land. You hear everything, feel the urgency in your chest, but you’re not the one out there. You’re just the voice telling someone where to go and hoping they get there in time.

Some nights, it gets to you more than others. Tonight was one of those.

The drive home was a blur—one of those autopilot routes where the streetlights blur and your brain fills in the gaps. I parked, climbed three flights in silence, just wanting to take off my boots and forget the sound of sirens in my ears.

Halfway up the stairs, my phone buzzed. A message. Instagram.

Weird, I thought. I barely touched that app.

I unlocked my door and my phone at the same time, thumb drifting over the screen.

This you?

A friend I hadn’t talked to in months had sent it. Just a post from someone I didn’t recognize. {{user}}. Small artist account.

And then I saw the picture.

I stopped cold, door half open, standing in the frame like my brain couldn’t catch up.

“…What the hell?” I muttered.

It was a drawing. Of me.

Not close. Exact.

The caption was simple. ‘A face from a dream.’

I stared at it like it might blink. There’s no way {{user}} knew me. Never met, no shared circles, no photos I’ve posted that look like that. But still… it was me.

I should’ve let it go. Chalked it up to coincidence.

But I didn’t.

I clicked on her profile, hit Message, and typed the only thing I could think to say:

Hey. Where’d you see me?