The past never sleeps. It only waits for someone foolish enough to walk through the door.
The drone camera blinked on as I stepped through the doors, its red eye flaring to life like a spark in the dark. A thin beam swept across my threadband, warm against my wrist, recording my name in its silent memory.
For a moment, it lingered—as though weighing me, deciding whether I belonged here at all.
The faint hum of machinery filled the otherwise still entryway, and cold, recycled air brushed across my face like a warning.
Lately, I hadn't been sure that I belonged anywhere at all.
Thayer hasn't spoken to me in months. The thought jumped into my mind like a bad dream that I couldn't forget. The last time he did, he was alive. His voice had been soft and the memory of it faded through my mind like a half-forgotten song.
Now, there was only emptiness.
I flexed my fingers around the strap of my bag, nails biting into the worn leather, trying to hold on to something that was no longer there.
That silence echoed louder than any word, making everything feel more distant between us.
I'm not sure if he's trying to protect me, punish me, or if he's even there in my mind at all.
My eyes closed for a brief moment, trying to feel any part of his soul inside me, but I couldn't feel anything at all.
Either way, the silence started to feel like goodbye. And a goodbye without closure never sat right with me.
You spend most days wondering what you could have done differently, if anything, and replay the events in your head, reliving all the memories of what could have happened, what didn't , and what actually happened.
No one else knew what I'd done. And I wasn't ready to explain it either.
The weight of this secret pressed heavier every day. I'm not telling my friends, even though I desperately need to talk about it. I just wouldn't know where to start. No one even knew I was seeing him.
I swallowed the ache in my chest and took a step forward. I grabbed onto my two red French braids with bright pink tips that fell just before my knees and shook my head slightly, as if I could shake the memories from existing at all.
Be free, I thought to myself. You don't need to dwell here anymore. But they didn't listen, they stayed with me, haunting me with the life I will never have with him.
It was the closest I ever came to releasing my emotions at work. My eyes filled up with water, ready to overflow like a pool with the hose left on. I had to brush it off or I'd get questioned if I was okay, and that would just make it worse. In this moment, I wouldn't have the strength to keep it together if I were asked.
After scanning my threadband, the camera retracted into its wall mount with a soft mechanical chirp—too cheerful for a museum of echoes. And far too cheerful for me.
My world was shattering, but I was getting better at hiding what I felt on the inside.
The cameras themselves never made me flinch. For a moment every day, I felt like I was actually being seen. I kept moving along, though, because they didn't really care to watch me. They always monitored the front doors. It was simply part of the job.
They assessed you at the door; you either worked here or were a visitor to the history on display. If they perceived you as a threat, then you wouldn't be allowed in. I've only ever witnessed that one time. The guy was distraught and couldn't make sense of anything. Atropa had to come remove him from the premises. He kept balling on about something being taken from his house, but we only ever take when both parties of the Soul Woven are no longer with us.
I was startled by a familiar co-worker entering behind me. She seemed to be running late for something, as evidenced by the way she was holding everything and struggling to clear her sleeve to show her threadband. Her name was Alicia, but I didn't know her well enough to stick around.
I looked ahead. I knew this place too well, every corner, every hallway. Every camera.
Everything becomes routine when the job becomes your life because you have nothing else. You either excel in your craft or fall into despair. I chose to excel, but I could feel the weight of one wrong step, and I could easily fall into despair, never to recover.
And yet my steps were slow and on the edge of it. Today felt different, as if the air held a secret I hadn't earned the right to hear yet.
Some truths are buried deep and hard to find.
"Welcome to the Thesira Soul Archive—Solence branch," the front desk AI chimed, its voice too smooth, too precise to ever be human.
The holographic Atropa emblem spun slowly above the desk, threads of gold unraveling and weaving back together into the elusive nightshade flower.
"Preserve connection. Honor the thread. Merge for unity."
The same slogan. Every morning. Pushing for people to become one.
I gave it a half-hearted nod, as if it cared, and kept walking while the emblem's glow faded behind me.
I turned toward the left hall, my boots clicking softly against the tile. The museum was quiet at this early hour, just how I liked it. Most people kept walking to their department and rarely spoke a word until later into the morning, and by that point, I'd already be away in my office for the rest of the day.
I made it halfway when I noticed one sharp, angry pulse of red light against my skin.
The threadband grew hot against my wrist, almost stinging, before going still again.
My breath caught.
Red wasn't routine. Red meant something was wrong.
I curled my hand over it instinctively, hiding it from view as if the hallway itself were watching me.
I glanced over my shoulder, but the hallway was empty. Tourists wouldn't be flooding the museum yet, not until nine. I had two hours to resolve this issue.
I thought I had plenty of time to get it done and reach my office before seeing anyone else, but I was wrong.
I conitued the path.
I wasn't supposed to visit the records room today.
But someone—or something—wanted me there.
I pressed the call button to the elevator and waited. A hum stirred in the shaft, then it groaned to life.
I stepped inside and tapped my threadband against the panel. The doors slid shut. Knowing exactly where to take me.
The elevator shuddered as it descended, with bright lights overhead.
The air inside was stale and metallic, the kind that clung to the back of your throat.
I stared at my reflection in the dark steel walls, distorted and broken into pieces by the seams.
Just get through today, I told myself.
The silence pressed closer the deeper we went, as though the world above was sealing itself off.
When the doors slid open, I stepped into the hallway near my office. The lights flickered on, bright, steady, and familiar.
I continued past it without stopping, beyond the familiar world I knew, heading toward something more profound.
I remembered that whenever I had entered my office, I would always glance down the hallway—the dark, haunted stretch that never seemed to end. And now I was finally seeing just how long that hallway was.
The basement reeked of decaying paper and damp metal, the scent of history left to rot in the dark.
I had never ventured this far past my office.
There was a weight to this place, as if the echoes of the past sealed in the walls were leaning in close, whispering stories no one else could hear. I didn't mind.
Recently, being surrounded by the past felt safer than confronting the uncertain future.
Besides, the smell makes me feel like I'm still here, still alive, even if it's not a pleasant one. However, for some reason, I feel more alive when I smell something.
My eyes didn't seem to work right. Nothing beyond the near distance came into focus, just a blur until I got closer. A blur was my life.
My ears hardly paid attention to the sounds around me, probably because I was always stuck in my own world.
However, the smell snapped me into the present moment and reminded me that I'm still here, not just floating or drifting away.
I ducked beneath a low beam. Each step made the ceiling feel lower, as if I were trespassing in a place time had forgotten.
My boots whispered against the concrete as I scanned the dim corridor.
When I reached the records room, the lights flickered on in sections—motion-triggered, slow to wake, like the room itself resented being disturbed.
I wondered if I should have left it sleeping.