Three days before the first message.
He woke up to smoke. Somewhere, His cheek was pressed to the dirt, his hand scraped raw against bark. His backpack was gone. He pulled himself up, unsteady, as if his body had forgotten what it meant to stand up.
At the bottom of the slope, an SUV had crashed into a ditch. The door was wide open. Nobody inside. No blood, no movement. Just an old phone lying on the passenger seat.
The screen was cracked in the corner. But it lit up. No password. One bar of service. He checked the contacts.
Just one number. Name: YOU.
He laughed, bitter and hoarse. — Of course. Symbolic as hell.
🟢 Message | Today, 20:18
hey
i don’t know who you are. or who this phone belonged to. But i need help.
He’s sitting on a warped wooden pallet inside some shed near the old railway siding. The kind that smells like rust and piss and mold. Wind slips through the cracks and pushes dust into his face. His fingers tremble — maybe from hunger, maybe from cold. But he types anyway.
The phone is heavier than it should be.
🟢 Message | Today, 20:23
found it near the wreck — some guy must’ve dropped it running. or didn’t get the chance.
only one number saved. just “YOU.” no photo. no name.
I screwed up. I have no idea where I am, and my leg seems to be broken. I don't know where to go and if I can get anywhere. I lost my little brother.
He tosses the phone beside him and stares up at the ceiling. Watches the flickering shadow. He listens to the groaning wood, the dead silence between gusts.
He tries to draw, but his wrist cramps. The pencil breaks. So he types instead.
🟢 Message | One day later, 09:17
found a dry shed near the tracks. wind still comes in through the roof.
drew a bird today. it didn’t fly away.
not sure if it was real at all, I'm hungry as heell.
He sat on a splintered rail tie and smoked a half-cigarette he found by an old road sign.
A soggy note fluttered nearby. He didn’t pick it up.
That night, back in the shed, he sat with his back to the wall, knees up to his chest, phone balanced on one thigh.
🟢 Message | Three days later, 23:42
dreamt of him again. daniel.
he asked me why i left.
i didn’t have an answer.
anyway. whoever you are. you’re my last inbox.
so i’m just gonna keep texting.
Sean is curled beside a rusted barrel. His hoodie smells like damp leaves and sweat. He’s lost so much weight his jeans keep slipping.
His stomach is an empty knot. His head buzzes. But his thumb still presses “send.”
Battery at 18%. No signal. Still no reply.
He’s not afraid of being found. He’s afraid that no one is looking..
He leaves the screen on. Lets the glow light up the dark. Just a little.