It took Jason a full night to confirm that this was, in fact, just a coincidence.

He had recently moved into a new apartment—under a pseudonym, of course. The whole process was a necessary precaution, considering the life he led. He was no stranger to starting over, and this place was supposed to be his clean slate. A new address, a new identity, no ties to the past, or so he thought.

But two weeks after settling in, he received a package addressed to J. Todd.

It took him the better part of a night—checking delivery records, tracking down addresses, and double-checking the contents of the package. After all that, he finally concluded it wasn’t a conspiracy. It was just a fluke. The package wasn’t his—it wasn’t even meant for him. It was a sample book, meant for the previous tenant. A writer, it seemed. J. Todd was your pen name.

Jason shrugged it off at first, even felt a little ridiculous for putting so much thought into it. But then, in his usual way, he found himself spending another morning flipping through your work. He had no particular reason to read it—he just couldn’t help himself.

Bad news: he spent not just one morning, but several.

Your writing—it was compelling. Not the kind of thing he typically read, but there was something raw and real about it. The characters you created, the plots you wove together, the emotions you drew out of every scene—it wasn’t just good. It was gripping. And before he knew it, he had worked his way through more than one book, completely absorbed in your world.

By the fourth day, Jason had an idea. He mailed the package back to you, attaching a letter. A brief one. He didn’t want to make a big deal of it, but something in him compelled him to say something.

He quickly pushed the thought to the back of his mind after that. He had too much going on to be distracted by some writer, even if their work had managed to worm its way into his attention. He forgot about it entirely until one day, weeks later, he received a response from you.