The fax machine had been still for years, folded into dust and the low hum of fluorescent lights. It sat at the edge of the credenza like an old intention, half-forgotten beneath curling memos and marketing printouts.
So when it stirred—hissing to life on a soft Wednesday afternoon—Michael nearly spilled his coffee.
The page emerged slowly, like a breath returning.
Just numbers.
Latitude. Longitude.
Nothing else.
He looked around. Phones whispered. Screens blinked. No one else seemed to notice. The machine quieted again.
A week later: another page. Same coordinates. This time, a single word.
Meetup.
He didn’t tell anyone. Just folded the paper and slid it into the drawer. A private curiosity. A quiet riddle.
Then came the third fax.
Twelve pages, identical. Printed in steady black letters:
COME HERE.
He didn’t know why he kept them. But he did. Tucked in his drawer like coordinates to a version of himself he hadn’t met yet.
The rest of life kept shuffling.
Expense reports.
Lunches eaten in the car.
Conversations like cardboard.
Then came the bonus—unexpected, generous, disproportionate. He stared at the number, then opened the drawer. Ran his fingers over the top page.
And two weeks later, he stood barefoot on the deck of a ferry from Saint Thomas, wind lifting his collar, the green curve of Saint John rising in the distance like a memory returning.
He didn’t speak much after disembarking. The taxi driver met him with a smile that felt like recognition.
“You’re the one,” the man said. “We’ve been waiting.”
Michael started to reply, to explain that he wasn’t anyone in particular—but the words dissolved in his mouth. He simply nodded.
The road rose in switchbacks, curling through dense green until the trees fell away to reveal a white stucco house, low and wide, sunlight sliding across a turquoise pool.
“Go on,” the driver said, with a kind of gentle finality.
Michael stepped inside. The air smelled of salt and jasmine. Light spilled across the tile.
He passed through to the pool deck. There, barefoot and still, stood a man—his exact likeness—gazing out toward the horizon.
The other Michael turned and smiled.
“My good man,” he said, arms open. “I’ve been waiting a very long time for you.”
They embraced. In that moment, something opened inside him—familiar, vast, and bright. A knowing without words. A reunion not of memory, but of being.
He pulled back, stunned. His shoes were gone. He looked down at his feet, warm against the tile. He turned to ask a question—
But he was alone.
Only the wind.
Only the pool.
Only the view.
He blinked. Then smiled.
Of course.
This was his home. It always had been.
He walked to the pool’s edge and dove in, his body remembering the rhythm. He surfaced with laughter and began his daily laps, just as he had for a very long time.
This story is part of the DLEIF transmission.