The Man in My Memories
A man begins to recall someone who never officially existed—but keeps appearing across his past and present, warning of a timeline gone wrong.
I remember meeting him—twice. But no one else does.
First time was in college. A transfer student. Name: Felix Moreau. Brilliant, strange, always wore gloves, even in summer. He once told me time “shouldn’t be walked through unless you're willing to lose something.”
Second time was last week.
He stepped off the train as I was boarding. Same face, just older. Looked right at me and said, “You should’ve listened to what I said.” Then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.
I checked everything—old yearbooks, photos, digital records. Nothing. No mention of a Felix Moreau. My friends say he never existed.
But here’s the thing: in my closet, there’s a photo from college. I'm standing in front of the library, and over my shoulder, in the corner of the frame, is Felix. Wearing the same gloves.
I didn’t take that photo. I’ve never seen it before last night.
The metadata says it was created five days ago.
I started seeing more things—tiny changes. The logo on my phone shifted. My apartment door had a scratch it didn’t have before. My neighbor calls me by a different last name now.
I think Felix wasn’t trying to scare me. I think he was warning me.
This morning, I found a note tucked into my jacket pocket. In Felix’s handwriting: “You split. One of you needs to stop.”
I don’t know what that means. But sometimes when I walk past windows, my reflection hesitates just a second too long.
First time was in college. A transfer student. Name: Felix Moreau. Brilliant, strange, always wore gloves, even in summer. He once told me time “shouldn’t be walked through unless you're willing to lose something.”
Second time was last week.
He stepped off the train as I was boarding. Same face, just older. Looked right at me and said, “You should’ve listened to what I said.” Then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.
I checked everything—old yearbooks, photos, digital records. Nothing. No mention of a Felix Moreau. My friends say he never existed.
But here’s the thing: in my closet, there’s a photo from college. I'm standing in front of the library, and over my shoulder, in the corner of the frame, is Felix. Wearing the same gloves.
I didn’t take that photo. I’ve never seen it before last night.
The metadata says it was created five days ago.
I started seeing more things—tiny changes. The logo on my phone shifted. My apartment door had a scratch it didn’t have before. My neighbor calls me by a different last name now.
I think Felix wasn’t trying to scare me. I think he was warning me.
This morning, I found a note tucked into my jacket pocket. In Felix’s handwriting: “You split. One of you needs to stop.”
I don’t know what that means. But sometimes when I walk past windows, my reflection hesitates just a second too long.
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