The Call For Help

The mobile phone suddenly exploded into ringing at two in the dead of night, its sharp tone like glass scraping through the stillness of the bedroom. The curtains weren't drawn tight; moonlight slipped through the gap, casting a thin shadow on the floor like an ominous omen. I fumbled to answer, my fingertips so cold I could barely hold the phone, sweat already dampening the back of my pajamas. "Sister, it's me." The voice on the other end was so familiar that my blood instantly froze, and I even forgot how to breathe. It was Cindy Lincoln's voice—a voice I hadn't heard in three years, a voice that should have remained forever silent beneath the earth. She spoke with a faint nasal tone, her intonation rising unconsciously at the end—just as I remembered, without the slightest hint of deceit. "Go to the Fog Cafe immediately, the third row by the window. There, you'll find the thing I left for you." Her tone was urgent, as if she were being pursued, every word tinged with an indescribable panic. "Don't tell anyone, especially Leo Jones—under no circumstances must he find out." This was her final warning before hanging up, filled with a desperation as resolute as a last stand. I sat frozen by the receiver through the busy signal for half an hour, cold sweat soaking my cotton pajamas, clinging uncomfortably to my skin. Cindy Lincoln clearly died in that heavy rain three years ago in a car accident; I watched with my own eyes as the firefighters pulled her from the mangled wreckage, and I witnessed the mortuary staff hand me the urn. On the day of the burial, Leo Jones held me and cried for a long time, promising to take good care of me for Cindy's sake—but now, looking back, his tears might have been even faker than a crocodile's. I dug out the old photos in the mobile phone album; it was taken on Cindy Lincoln's twentieth birthday. She wore a white dress, standing beneath the cherry blossom trees in the park, her smile blossoming like a flower, with the tear mole at the corner of her eye clearly visible. My fingertips brushed over her face on the screen, and my heart felt as if gripped tightly by an invisible hand, aching so fiercely I could barely breathe. Leo Jones slept beside me, his breathing steady. The moonlight traced the sharp contours of his profile, and the gentle lines I was used to now held an unfamiliar, sinister edge. Married for five years, he had always been the model husband in others' eyes—remembering my menstrual cycle, leaving a light on when I worked late, preparing surprises on anniversaries. Yet now, looking back, all that tenderness feels like a carefully woven lie. Cindy Lincoln's warning stabbed into the most restless corner of my heart like a poisoned thorn; the details I had deliberately ignored suddenly surfaced. Last month, my mobile phone suddenly lagged, and Leo Jones said he would take it for repairs. After it came back, it was indeed much smoother. But since then, I've constantly felt like someone has been watching me from the shadows. And there were the surveillance cameras at home. Leo Jones said it was for security, but several times I noticed that the camera angles seemed to have been adjusted, pointed directly at the bedroom and the study. At dawn, the sky was tinged with an eerie milky white. I lied, saying there was an emergency meeting at work, quickly changed my clothes, and rushed out, my heart pounding wildly in my chest, as if trying to break free from its cage. The breakfast shop at the neighborhood entrance was already open. Steam from the bamboo steamers blurred the glass door. The owner greeted me with a smile, but I had no mind to respond, my footsteps quickening toward the subway station. Fog Cafe was seven subway stops from my home. I sat in the corner of the carriage, clutching my bag strap tightly, my eyes scanning every person boarding with suspicion, afraid Leo Jones might suddenly appear. The cafe was deserted, except for the hum of the coffee machine blending with the rich aroma of roasted beans. The air carried a stifling silence. On the third row by the window lay a thin kraft paper envelope, light yet weighted as if it bore the weight of a thousand pounds. There was no signature on the envelope, only a line of elegant handwriting in black ink: "Destroy immediately after reading, leave no trace." I glanced around cautiously, ensuring there were no cameras or suspicious figures nearby, before tremblingly opening the envelope, my fingertips shaking almost uncontrollably. Inside was a folded letter and a brand-new, unmarked SIM card, its edges still rough from the packaging. The handwriting on the letter matched perfectly with that on the envelope—undoubtedly Cindy Lincoln's style. "Sis, by the time you read this letter, I might no longer be in a safe place. But you have to trust me: your phone, your computer, and even the security cameras at home are all controlled by Leo Jones. He is not to be trusted." "Immediately discard your current phone—the farther away, the better. Don't turn it off; just throw it away. Use this SIM card and buy a new phone. Remember, do not buy a smartwatch, and do not connect to any public WiFi." "Log in to the website below. Your account is your birthday, and the password is mine. Inside is everything you need to know. Remember, don't trust anyone—not even the police."