I bought the phone from a pawn shop for twenty bucks.
Old model, cracked screen, but it worked.

When I turned it on, a photo filled the wallpaper —
a pale-faced boy staring straight at me.

I tried changing it.
It wouldn’t let me.

That night, the phone buzzed on my nightstand.
DING.

A text from “Unknown.”

“You can’t keep it. It’s mine.”

I froze.
My reflection in the screen looked strange —
the boy’s face behind mine, grinning.

The phone buzzed again.

“Look at the wallpaper.”

I did.
The boy in the photo was smiling now.

And then—
my own face in the reflection started to fade.