A cold chill crept down my back as the possibility of a stocker flashed through my head. I didn’t recall encountering any strange people.
As I examined the book, I saw that all the pages were blank except for the post-it on the first page and a sentence written at the top of the following page. It said, “Living with the fear of imminently dying in a side impact car accident makes intersections feel like brain surgery for a hyperventilating doctor.”
I thought about what would happen if I responded to that statement, if I left the notebook on the train. What would happen next? Would I never hear from “The Ryter” again? Or would I?
The thought fascinated me, my curiosity was peaked. Whoever left this notebook for me not only knew my name, but they new the temptation of writing and my childish curiosity would cloud my judgment.
Few knew of my love of writing. That was personal and for me only. Visual art was the only expression I’d share with the world. There was no way I was writing anything for this “Ryter”.