The Stranger Who Knew My Name

It was a cool autumn evening, the city lights blurring into golden smudges as a soft drizzle fell. I was walking home after an exhausting shift at the bookstore, my tote bag heavier than usual with unsold novels and leftover pastries my boss insisted I take. My mind was lost in thoughts about the mundane — bills, emails, another missed call from my mother — when I noticed him.

A man, standing at the corner under the flickering streetlight.

He wasn’t remarkable at first glance. Average height, wearing a dark coat and a beanie pulled low over his forehead. What caught my attention wasn’t how he looked — it was how he was looking at me. Directly. Unwaveringly. As if he’d been waiting for me.

I slowed down instinctively, every childhood warning about strangers flashing in my head. I gripped my bag tighter, heart quickening, ready to cross the street — when he spoke.

“Evelyn.”

My name.

He said it softly but clearly, like an old friend greeting me after years apart. My blood turned cold. I hadn’t told anyone my route home. I certainly didn’t recognize him. Yet he said my name like he knew me.

I froze. “Do I know you?” I asked, voice trembling despite my best efforts.

He smiled — a sad, almost apologetic smile — and shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “But I know you.”

I took a step back, my instincts screaming to run, but curiosity anchored my feet. The city buzzed around us — distant sirens, honking taxis — but in that moment, it felt like the world had narrowed to just him and me.

He continued, as if rehearsing lines from a script. “You like blueberry muffins but only eat half because you feel guilty. You reread your favorite books every January. You still keep the snow globe your father gave you when you were eight, even though it’s cracked.”

My breath hitched. How could he possibly know those things? Memories so private I hadn’t even told my closest friends?

“Who are you?” I whispered, panic clawing at my chest.

He hesitated, glancing around as if checking for unseen eyes. Then he stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “I can’t explain everything here. But please, don’t be afraid. You’re important, Evelyn. More important than you know.”

The rain picked up, drops pattering against the pavement. I shook my head, overwhelmed, and took a cautious step back. Every instinct I had screamed at me to run home, lock the door, forget this ever happened.

But then he said one final thing — the thing that made my blood run cold.

“Be careful crossing Lincoln Avenue tomorrow. And don’t take the late train.”

I blinked, stunned. Before I could ask him anything else, a car splashed through a puddle, drenching me, and when I looked back, he was gone — swallowed by the city.

That night, sleep eluded me. I tossed and turned, replaying the encounter, questioning my sanity. A hundred logical explanations ran through my mind — a prank, a stalker, a coincidence — but none made sense.

The next day, I avoided Lincoln Avenue like it was cursed. At 5:30 PM, I watched the news, heart pounding.

A bus had jumped the curb on Lincoln Avenue at precisely the time I would have been crossing it. Multiple injuries. One fatality.

I dropped my coffee cup, shattering it across the floor.

I never took the late train again either.

Weeks passed. I tried to convince myself I had imagined it — the man, his warnings, the eerie familiarity. But sometimes, when I’m walking home, I feel eyes on me. Watching. Protecting.

I don’t know who he was or how he knew what he knew. Maybe he was an angel, or a time traveler, or just a man burdened with knowledge no one should have. Maybe I’m crazy.

But every time I cross the street now, I look both ways twice.

Just in case.

Because somewhere out there, someone who knew my name once — and everything else about me — might still be watching.