Cancer gave us months to prepare, but death still felt sudden. That morning, I left Luna, my golden retriever, in the car outside St. Mary’s. She whined—unusual for her.
The funeral had just begun when barking echoed through the church. Luna charged down the aisle and stopped at the casket, growling, refusing to move. Something was wrong.
I opened the casket.
It wasn’t my dad.
Same suit, same cufflinks—but the face, the hands—they belonged to a stranger. My mother fainted. The police called it a mix-up, but it felt like more.
That night, Luna led me to a hidden panel in Dad’s study. Behind it: a lockbox.
Inside:
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A photo of Dad with men in military gear
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A thumb drive
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A note:
“If you’re reading this, something’s gone wrong. That’s not me. I was in danger after what we found in ’85. Watch the drive. Trust no one—not even those closest to you.
— Dad”
The drive held files, videos, proof he’d been watched—and warnings that people had already vanished.
