I almost didn’t go. Every part of me screamed leave it alone. But something about that man’s eyes—desperate, pleading—made it impossible to ignore.

At 4:10 PM the next day, I arrived at the coordinates. It was an old greenhouse on the edge of the city, half-swallowed by vines. Glass shattered, door cracked open.

Inside, everything was quiet—too quiet. Rows of dead plants, dust-covered benches, and in the back, a table with a black briefcase on it.

Next to it, a folded piece of paper. Same handwriting:
“Deliver this. Don’t open it. If you do… you’re next.”

That’s when I heard footsteps. A woman’s voice, soft but firm:
“Put the case down. Slowly.”

She was mid-40s, trench coat, sunglasses, but her eyes locked onto mine like she knew me.

“You weren’t supposed to get involved,” she said. “You weren’t supposed to help him.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I stammered.

“You did more than you know.”

She stepped closer. And in her hand… was another note.

My name. Written on the outside.

The lesson?
Sometimes helping a stranger doesn’t just change their life—it changes yours. Because once you carry the secret… there’s no going back.