Daniel arrived twenty minutes later, looking like he'd just barely remembered to put on pants. His dark curls were uncombed, his hoodie wrinkled, and there was a smear of something vaguely resembling toothpaste on the corner of his mouth.
Mira opened the door before he could knock.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said, stepping inside.
"I think I have," she replied.
He raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything as she shut the door behind him.
"Come here," she said, leading him to the table where the drawing still lay.
Daniel stared at it for a long moment.
"This is…" He frowned. "This is creepy."
"Right?" Mira sat down across from him. "It wasn't mine. It showed up after I got the voicemail."
He looked up at her. "You mean the one where *you* told *you* about the fire?"
"Yes."
Daniel rubbed his jaw. "Okay. So either someone knows way too much about you… or we're dealing with something else entirely."
She nodded slowly. "I need help figuring out who left this. Can you analyze the handwriting? See if it matches any known cases?"
Daniel pulled out his laptop and booted it up. "You know I can do that. But if this is connected to what you're saying — the messages, the disappearances, the whole time-loop thing — then this isn't just some prank."
"I know."
He began scanning in the image, adjusting contrast and clarity. Then he ran it through a forensic handwriting analysis tool he had access to through an old university contact.
They waited in silence as the program worked.
Finally, the screen blinked.
A match.
Daniel's eyes widened.
"No way," he muttered.
"What?" Mira leaned over.
He turned the screen toward her.
There, displayed clearly, was another document — scanned from a police file dated ten years ago.
The same handwriting.
The same phrase.
**"Find me."**
Below it, a name:
> *Case File #1439 – Missing Child: Lena Mercer*
Mira's breath caught.
Lena.
The girl from the café.
She hadn't imagined her.
"She's real," Daniel whispered.
"No," Mira said, shaking her head. "She disappeared ten years ago."
Daniel glanced at her. "Then how did her handwriting show up on this paper yesterday?"
Mira didn't answer.
Because she didn't know.
But she needed answers.
And there was only one person who could help her get them.
---
### 👮♂️
Two hours later, Mira stood outside the Portland Police Department headquarters.
Rain had started to fall again, drizzling in soft waves that blurred the city lights. The building loomed ahead, its windows reflecting the gray sky.
She hesitated.
Jonah Rourke.
She had spoken to him before, briefly, when consulted on cold case profiles. He was sharp, skeptical, and not easily impressed. If she walked in now and told him she'd received a message from her future self and found a missing child's handwriting on a murder scene sketch, he'd probably escort her out personally.
Still, she had no choice.
She stepped inside.
The front desk buzzed her through after confirming she had an appointment. She took the elevator to the third floor and followed the corridor until she found his office.
Detective Jonah Rourke sat behind a cluttered desk, phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, flipping through a stack of papers. When he saw her, his expression shifted from irritation to mild surprise.
He ended the call quickly.
"Dr. Kade," he said, setting the receiver down. "Didn't expect to see you again so soon."
"I have information," she said. "About Carly Voss."
He studied her for a long moment. "What kind of information?"
She hesitated, then slid the drawing across the desk.
He picked it up carefully. Frowned.
"Where'd you get this?"
"It appeared on my desk last night. And again at the crime scene this morning."
His eyes flicked up to hers.
"You were at the warehouse?"
"I needed to see it for myself."
He sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Mira, if you're trying to help, I appreciate it. But you can't just go wandering around active crime scenes."
"I'm not trying to help," she said quietly. "I'm trying to stop what's coming."
That stopped him.
He set the drawing down gently. "What are you talking about?"
She took a deep breath. "I got a message — a voicemail — from myself. Seven days in the future. It warned me about Carly's death. And now there's this. A child named Lena Mercer drew this ten years ago. She went missing. And now, somehow, her drawings are appearing at these scenes."
Jonah didn't move.
"Let me guess," he said after a beat. "You want me to believe you're getting messages from yourself across time."
"I don't expect you to believe me," she said. "But I need you to look at the facts."
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.
"You're asking me to ignore everything I know about reality," he said. "To believe that time works differently. That people can send messages across it. That a dead woman is walking around drawing things she shouldn't be able to."
She met his gaze.
"And yet," she said softly, "here we are."
Silence stretched between them.
Then, finally, Jonah reached for his drawer.
Pulled out a folder.
Slid it across the desk.
"I've been investigating disappearances for months," he said. "Patterns. Similarities. Victims who don't seem connected—until you dig deeper."
She opened the folder.
Photos.
More drawings.
Same style.
Same handwriting.
Same phrase.
**"Find me."**
Her throat tightened.
He looked at her.
"I don't believe in ghosts," he said. "But I believe in patterns. And this one leads straight to you."
Jonah shows Mira a string of unsolved murders — all linked by the same eerie pattern. One victim stands out: a woman whose case mirrors Carly Voss' death almost exactly. Except she died *five years ago*. Mira realizes the cycle has already begun — and she may have seen it before.