Rachel sits on the floor surrounded by boxes. On her new living room floor. In her brand new apartment. 

Finding this apartment was a fluke, as Rachel hadn’t been looking to move. She had every intention of resigning the lease for her small 500-square-foot studio, but when leaving Pilates last month she stumbled upon the perfect listing – a one-bedroom with a balcony that is across the street from her best friend’s house. It was almost as if this apartment was meant for her. 

After signing the papers, she moved quickly. Throwing her life into boxes for the second time in a year, she moved across town in the span of an afternoon. Her studio was small, after all.

She marvels at the floor-to-ceiling windows, spilling light onto the beautiful (and original!) hardwood floors. An exposed brick wall and modern kitchen round out its charm. How did I get so lucky? She ponders. She never would have imagined that this apartment would be available, much less within her budget. 

Picking up a box labeled “books,” she begins to unpack, placing her beloved titles on the bookshelf against her bedroom wall.

A photograph falls to the floor. She picks it up smiling, remembering the close friends she came to know at her first “real” job at the local grocery store. As she was packing, she shoved this photo in between the pages to keep it safe. Its rightful place will be tacked to her vanity, once she gets her bedroom – with a door! – situated. 

Setting it aside on the shelf, she takes a closer look – this isn’t the photo from the grocery store. She’s in the photo, and so is her best friend Darla, but that’s the restaurant down the street from the grocery store where they’d go after their shift. And she’s never met these other people before.

Rachel drops the book with fright. As it falls to the floor, she wonders: Who are these people? And why are we standing in front of Paddy’s?

Hands shaking, she picks up the photograph to examine it more closely. 

That’s so bizarre, she thinks to herself. This photo is nearly identical to the one she remembers – the one she’s looked at nearly every day since she was 15. Yet the major players are all different. Flipping the photo over, she examines the back. Is it possible that I just don’t remember taking this? She finds only one thing written: “Love, S.”

Love, S? Who is S? And what the hell is going on? 

To be continued…