Certainly, a man who, in our times, has the luck to stop for a moment and reflect on his life, and has the fortune to see himself in others—accepting his mistakes and blessing his good qualities—is a truly fortunate man. But what is fortune? I have heard and known, though not experienced, that a large percentage of the privileged population feels something is missing, and there they get lost in the search for what a privileged life cannot offer. The same is true at the other extreme: those with little experience other types of situations, yet they feel that life has been unjust by stealing part of it. But those of us in the middle are fortunate. They say no extreme is good, and I tend to think that, yes, those of us who live in the middle, like graphs that rise and fall depending on the different periods of our lives, experience both wealth and poverty.

  These are the thoughts that come to me each day, and certainly, I don’t know if the man who doesn’t need to spend his time thinking is more fortunate. That morning of September 26, 2022, at 7 a.m., walking down Peel St in Adelaide, like most people, I wished to get a coffee to wake up my mind and prepare myself to work. So, I entered La Moka. This place has a warm and welcoming essence, a mix of rustic and modern. I certainly love the feeling of traveling to other times simply by entering a place with a vintage touch. I went in, ordered my coffee, and, being on the second floor, which to me is a relatively private area, I was about to begin my tasks for the day when a man, perhaps about 20 years older than me, approached and grabbed my arm. I didn’t react much, just staring into his piercing eyes and freezing in place, almost in shock. I didn’t know how that particular figure had gotten so close or what he wanted. A million thoughts flooded my mind in that instant until the man spoke:

  —You don’t have to worry, but I need you to stay calm. I know you don’t know me, but I must seem familiar to you. I don’t have much time, but in a brief speech, I can tell you that I am a messenger. I’ve been tasked with delivering this envelope to you. The contents of it belong to you alone. The one who sent it is unknown to me. As I said, I am just a messenger. If you have any questions or doubts, it is not my duty to answer them. I am not authorized, and even if I were, I wouldn’t be able to give you any information. All I know is that you are one of those individuals capable of solving the mysteries that humanity’s history has left behind. My name is Xerox.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  With that, the man got up from the seat and went downstairs. The envelope he had handed me remained on the table. Without words, without reaction, I just watched him descend. But I can’t deny that I stayed seated, trying to calculate what had just happened. When I finally reacted and wanted to follow the trace of that figure, I had already lost sight of him. No matter how much I ran to both ends of the street, I saw no one. I left and returned to the place, asking the people behind the counter if they had any reference of the man who had entered behind me. They replied that they had seen no one and that they were quite concerned about my erratic behavior. They asked if I was alright, if I needed them to call the police or a doctor, to which I replied that it was not necessary. And it wasn’t, because no crime had been committed and, had I chosen to report it, it would have been a waste of time describing the event and the person without any witnesses. Too much paperwork for such an unconventional matter.

  I returned to the table, where the envelope and now the coffee—left by the people serving—remained. I stared at the envelope with a curiosity that I can truly say awakened the moment I laid eyes on it. Not only did it spark my curiosity, but something deeper, almost instinctive, like an inescapable call. Not only that, but it felt as if the envelope had been sent by me, as if I had been waiting for it. I took it in my hands and inspected it: it was finely crafted, precise for its contents. Its material was impossible to identify, different from any I had seen. It protected its contents with an unsettling sturdiness, as if it were impossible to open without the proper procedure. In the center, a seal stood out, with modern typography—almost too modern. It read: X.E.R.O.X.

  The revelation sent a chill down my spine. That name had already resonated in my mind before, but I didn’t know exactly why. Something about its presence felt strangely familiar, as if I had known it in another moment, but my memory refused to reveal how or when. The force with which he had grabbed my arm, his deep but mechanical voice, the faint clicks and creaks that seemed like hidden hinges in the darkness of his cloak… All of this started to connect in my mind.

  My thoughts led me back to my university years, to robotics and neuroscience projects I had once researched. The possibility of cybernetic implants, artificial consciousness, of hybrid beings between man and machine. The idea seemed impossible, but now, after this encounter, it was beginning to feel terrifyingly plausible.

  Before disappearing, Xerox had left me with one final phrase, one that now echoed in my mind with every heartbeat:

  —We’ll meet in the crossword of life.

  I placed the coffee aside and began to open the envelope.