When I ran into the grocery store that evening, I was in a hurry — the kind of hurry that makes you forget things. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the soft hum of the self-checkout machines filled the air. I scanned my items quickly — bread, milk, a few vegetables — barely glancing at the screen. I was halfway to the parking lot when I heard someone call out behind me.
“Excuse me! You dropped this!”A woman, probably in her late thirties, was jogging toward me, waving a small slip of paper. My receipt. She smiled, slightly out of breath, and handed it over.“Thank you,” I said, a little embarrassed at my forgetfulness. She just nodded, her smile polite but somehow… off. Then she turned and walked away.
I didn’t think much of it until later that night.When I got home, I unpacked the groceries, tossing the receipt onto the counter. As I flattened it out to double-check a price, I noticed faint writing on the back — hurried, uneven, as if written while standing.It read: “Check your trunk.”My chest tightened. I froze, eyes darting toward the window that faced the driveway. My car sat there, dark and silent, the trunk just barely visible under the glow of the streetlight.
For a long moment, I didn’t move. Then, curiosity — or maybe fear — got the better of me. I grabbed my phone’s flashlight and stepped outside.The air was cold. My footsteps crunched against the gravel as I approached the car. My hand trembled as I pressed the button to unlock it. The trunk clicked open with a soft pop.Inside, nestled between my grocery bags, was a small black purse. It wasn’t mine.There was no ID, no cards, just a single folded piece of paper. On it were four words written in the same rushed handwriting:“She’s not who you think.”And just then, I realized — the woman who’d handed me the receipt was nowhere to be found on the store’s security footage.She wasn’t on it at all.