“It’s not like that,” I insisted, though a small part of me wondered if perhaps it could be. “Besides, for all I know, he could be anyone. A sweet old grandfather. A teenager who’s really into woodworking. A serial killer with a very specific interest in library equipment.”
“Or,” Brenda said, her eyes twinkling mischievously, “he could be a monster.”
I laughed. “A monster?”
“Think about it,” she continued, warming to her theory. “He’s very formal in his language, like someone who learned English from books rather than conversation. He’s knowledgeable about building things. He got defensive when you mentioned ‘bullheaded.’ Maybe he’s a minotaur!”
“A minotaur,” I repeated, unable to keep the amusement from my voice. “Texting me about ladder safety.”
“Stranger things have happened,” Brenda said with a shrug. “Especially in this town.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
It was generally accepted that some supernatural creatures existed, but not many of them, and certainly not in sleepy little Willowbrook.
“Nothing, nothing,” she waved dismissively. “Just an old woman’s ramblings. But keep me updated on your ladder situation. And your mystery texter. I want to know if he turns out to have horns.”
We parted ways in the parking lot, Brenda heading for her sensible sedan while I walked towards my apartment just a few blocks away. As I strolled through the quiet streetsof Willowbrook, my thoughts kept returning to the unknown person on the other end of my texts.
Who were they, really? What did they look like? Why had they taken such interest in my problem? And why did they seem so… different?
That night, tucked into bed with a cup of chamomile tea and my current read, I found myself repeatedly setting down my book to scroll through the day’s text exchange. Something about the conversation had gotten under my skin, in a not entirely unpleasant way.
There was an undeniable peculiarity to the whole interaction. Most people, upon receiving a wrong number text, would simply say “wrong number” and move on with their lives. Instead, this person had asked questions and offered to help.
And their communication style—so precise, so formal, so devoid of the casual shortcuts most people used—created a sense of… otherness. Like communicating with someone who operated by slightly different social rules.
I scrolled back to his defensiveness about the “bullheaded” comment. Why had that, of all things, struck a nerve? It seemed such an odd thing to fixate on.
“Maybe he’s a minotaur!”Brenda’s joking suggestion floated back to me, and I smiled at the absurdity. A monster, concerned about library ladder safety. Right.
Still, there was something compelling about the fantasy. What if the person on the other end of these texts wasn’t what I was picturing at all? What if they were something… more?
You’re being ridiculous, Clara,I chided myself, setting my phone aside.He’s just a person. Probably a perfectly normal, if somewhat formal, person who works in construction and happens to be kind enough to help a stranger.
But as I turned out my light and settled into sleep, a small, irrational part of me wondered what it would be like if he wasn’t just a person. If he was something else entirely. Something extraordinary.
That night, I dreamed of labyrinthine libraries with endless shelves, of ladders that reached impossible heights, and of a shadow figure who followed behind me, steadying each rung as I climbed higher and higher into unexplored realms of ancient texts. I couldn’t see his face. I just sensed a massive, solid presence that somehow radiated both strength and gentleness.
When I awoke the next morning, the dream lingering at the edges of my consciousness, I found myself reaching for my phone before I was fully awake. A new message waited.
I’ve been considering your ladder problem. Send more pictures of the joint connections today. I believe I can help.
No “good morning.” No pleasantries. Just straight to the problem-solving.
And yet, I found myself smiling as I replied.Good morning to you too. I’ll send pictures when I get to work. Thank you.
I don’t even know your name.I added, after a moment’s hesitation.
The reply came as I was brushing my teeth:
Rion.
Just that. One word. No last name. No “What’s yours?” No context.
But it was something—a name to attach to the mystery.
Nice to meet you, Rion. I’m Clara.
