RE: Qurator's Mischievous Mondays | I Found a USB Drive Labeled “Your Life”

It was a gray Tuesday morning when I found the USB drive.

I was running late to work, as usual, and decided to take a shortcut through the park. That’s when I saw it—half-buried in the wet grass near a bench, a small black USB stick. On it, scrawled in neat silver marker, were two words: “Your Life.”

Curiosity trumped common sense. I pocketed it, figuring someone had dropped it. Maybe it held family photos or homework or a resume. But something about those words stuck in my mind all day like a whisper I couldn’t quite make out.

That evening, alone in my apartment, I plugged it into my laptop.

It took a few seconds to load.

The screen flashed. Then a folder appeared, titled simply: “Open Me.”

Inside were dozens of subfolders, each labeled with eerily specific names—“Childhood,” “High School,” “Regrets,” “Dreams,” “First Love,” and most chilling of all: “Future.”

I clicked on “Childhood.” Photos and videos spilled out. They were all of me. Birthday parties I barely remembered, my first time riding a bike, my mother tucking me into bed. Private, intimate moments no one had ever recorded—or so I thought.

Confused and a little unnerved, I opened “High School.” There were scanned pages from my old journals, chat logs, screenshots of conversations long deleted. Secrets I never shared with anyone. How could anyone have this?

My fingers trembled as I clicked on “Regrets.”

There they were—decisions I wished I could change, paths not taken, people I hurt, people I lost. Each regret played like a movie reel, forcing me to relive them. I shut the lid of the laptop for a moment, heart racing.

But I couldn’t stop.

I opened “Dreams.” A strange warmth passed through me. This folder showed versions of my life that never happened—but could have. Me as a musician, a traveler, a father. All the things I once hoped for, rendered vividly, beautifully. Tears welled in my eyes. Was this some kind of digital prophecy? Or cruel fantasy?

Then, I hovered over the final folder: “Future.”

Against my better judgment, I double-clicked it.

A single video file opened. It began with me—older, gray-haired, sitting in a hospital bed. I watched in stunned silence as the video unfolded. It chronicled the rest of my life: promotions I never thought I’d earn, people I hadn’t met yet, heartbreaks, a family of my own, and finally… my last breath.

I sat there, staring at the screen, the soft hum of my laptop the only sound in the room.

When the video ended, a message appeared:

“You can change any of it. But you must choose. Close this and forget. Or accept and begin anew.”

The drive ejected itself.

The next morning, I quit my job.

I booked a one-way ticket.

And I started over.

Because sometimes, the only way to live your life—is to finally see it for what it could be. And choose it, fully.

Everything changed… and for once, it was on purpose.