The 3AM Message My phone buzzed at 3:17 AM. That alone wasn’t strange. I work night shift as a delivery dispatcher, so my phone rings at stupid hours. What was strange was the number: _Unknown_. And the message: > “You left me at the bus stop. Again.” I frowned. I hadn’t driven the 11 PM route in three weeks. Since the accident. The accident where a girl in a yellow raincoat stepped off the curb right as I turned. Where my brakes screamed, but not fast enough. Where I ran. I hadn’t told anyone. The police never found her body. The rain washed everything away. My thumb hovered over the phone. I should block the number. But my fingers typed back before I could think: _Who is this?_ Three dots appeared. Then: > “Check the backseat. > I’m cold.” My blood turned to ice. I was home alone. The car was parked outside, locked. I hadn’t touched it since the night it happened. Against every sane thought, I walked to the window. Rain hit the glass in angry slaps. My old Toyota sat under the streetlight, water running off its roof. And in the backseat, a face pressed against the window from inside. Pale. Soaked. Eyes wide and empty. Wearing a yellow raincoat. The phone buzzed again. > “Open the door. > It’s still raining.” I wanted to run. But my feet moved to the front door. My hand reached for the keys. Because the worst part wasn’t the face in the backseat. It was that I recognized it. It was my own face, from ten years ago — the night my younger sister waited for me at that same bus stop. The night I never showed up. The door creaked open.