The ImposterThe ImposterThe Imposter

There are two names on the lease of Flat 2B, [redacted]. For a while, both of them are used. Then only one is, and nobody can say exactly when that changed.

The second room stays occupied. The light goes on at the usual time and off at the usual time. The rent leaves the usual account on the first of every month, to the penny.

A man disappears, but his identity doesn'tdoesn'tdoesn't disappear with him.

His friends call, and someone answers. The voice is tired and a little hoarse. A cold, he says. It's been going around.

He remembers their birthdays. He asks about their dogs by name. He ends every call the way he always did, with the same two words and the same small laugh.

Nobody thinks to ask why he never wants to meet.

A friend finds an old photograph from a party, years ago. Everyone is in it. She counts the faces twice.

There is one face too many, standing exactly where he used to stand. It is a good likeness. It is not quite himnot quite himnot quite him.

She puts the photograph in a drawer. When she opens the drawer the next morning, it is gone.

A familiar voice starts to sound different, the way a song sounds when someone else is singing it.

An account that has been silent for a long time posts again. The spelling is right. The jokes are almost right. The punctuation is wrong in a way only one person would notice, and that person has not been seen since [redacted].

At first, nobody notices anything unusual. Then the inconsistencies begin, and once they begin, they do not stop.

One question starts haunting everyone who knew him:

If someone can steal your identity perfectly, how would anyone know you're gone?

Years later, an abandoned computer is found in a cleared-out room. Nobody remembers plugging it in. It is still switched on.

It is displaying a single message: IDENTITY VERIFIED.

Then another: ORIGINAL USER NOT FOUND.

And finally: WHO ARE YOU?

The screen goes black.

A final message appears:

YOU WERE NEVER THE ORIGINAL.

Case status: open.