It was a suffocating summer afternoon. I had just finished grabbing groceries and was juggling three bags when I heard it: the desperate, muffled sound of pounding fists.
I turned my head—and froze.
In the front passenger seat of a white sedan sat a little boy, maybe five, shirt damp with sweat, his cheeks beet red. He was screaming, his tiny hands banging against the closed window. The car was locked, the windows rolled up, and not a single adult anywhere nearby.
The heat index was in the 90s. I dropped my bags and sprinted to the car. “Hey! Are you okay? Can you unlock the door?” I shouted, but he just sobbed harder, frantic and terrified.
My hands shook as I grabbed my phone and called 911. “There’s a child locked in a white Toyota sedan, I think. He’s overheating. He’s screaming, I—”
The dispatcher cut me off. “Ma’am, what’s the license plate?”
I stepped back, read it aloud. She paused.
“That vehicle was cleared fifteen minutes ago,” she said. “The child is safe and with his mother. A responding officer confirmed.”
I blinked. “No. I’m looking at him. He’s still in the car. Same plate. Same everything.”
A long silence.
Then the dispatcher said, slowly:
“Ma’am… there should be no one in that car. It was left empty after the call. Officers verified. The child is not there.”
I turned slowly toward the vehicle.
The boy had gone still. He was staring at me, face pressed against the glass.
Then, with eerie calm, he lifted something into view. A phone.
The screen lit up.
It was a photo of me.
Standing in that exact parking lot. Holding my phone. From ten minutes ago.
I staggered back, heart pounding in my throat. “He has… he has a photo of me,” I whispered.
The dispatcher asked, “Are you certain it’s you?”
The boy’s eyes locked on mine. A faint, unnatural smile tugged at his lips. Then—just as I turned to flag down another passerby—the car was empty.
I swear I didn’t blink. I swear he was just there.
The door was locked. The seatbelt still twisted, as if someone had been squirming in it. But no sign of the boy. No phone.
Just my own reflection in the window.
And on the ground beside the car—
A printed photo of me.
From this morning.
Smiling. At home.
Inside my kitchen.
I haven’t been alone since.
And every night, before I go to bed—
I check my windows.
Because sometimes, in the glass…
I still see him.
Just watching.
And holding that phone.
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