The days that follow are strangely ordinary.
Erika insists we keep researching schools. She spreads brochures on the floor like trading cards, categorizing them by uniforms, cafeteria options, club variety. "Schools with depressing food go in the bottom pile," she declares. "I won't let you starve academically or physically."
I nod and pretend to compare scholarship options. But every time she gets distracted—washing dishes, napping on the sofa, spending half an hour picking snack flavors at the market—I slip away to the laptop.
I return to it again and again like a moth to a barely glowing light.
On day three, I find something.
Not a document. Not a report. Not an email.
A folder disguised between research papers and academic logs. No label, no clear icon. Just a date:
NC 789.11
Late last year. Four months before the crash.
I hesitate, my finger hovering over the trackpad. It feels like opening someone's diary. But the moment passes.
I click.
Inside are photos. Dozens. No captions. No notes.
They're all taken in cold places. Snowfields. Mountains. Broken pathways of metal and concrete. Not landmarks. Not scenic spots.
Ruins.
My father hated sightseeing. If he took photos, they meant something.
I click on one image.
It shows a large metal gate, half-buried under ice and snow. Rust eats through its surface. A chain still hangs from the hinge, frozen stiff. Behind it are rocks, debris, and the remains of some structure long forgotten.
I zoom in.
Beneath the frost, faint letters emerge:
SITE 09
Blood rushes to my ears. I scroll to the next photo, then the next. Different angles. Different distances. Sometimes blurry, as if taken quickly. Sometimes partially obscured by a gloved hand or a sleeve. Dad was hiding the camera. Or he was in a hurry.
Another photo shows a closer shot of the gate. I zoom further.
There, in the lower corner of the metal, scratched rough into the surface beneath frozen grime, a symbol.
A circle.A looping line inside, curved like something swallowing its own tail.Not perfect. Not artistic. Just a mark.Primitive, maybe. Intentional, definitely.
A memory stirs — sketches I'd seen in Dad's notes, always scribbled over. Strange symbols in Mom's old linguistics notebooks, ones she'd erase before I could ask. A symbol Detective Kean never named but hinted at.
Ouroboros.
The name rattles like a whisper in my skull.
Whatever my parents discovered at SITE 09 wasn't just old machinery. It wasn't just history. If an ancient symbol was scratched into the metal, it wasn't nature.
It was communication.Or warning.
I copy one image and hide it deep in a folder disguised as "School Documents – Tuition Info." Anyone glancing at it would assume it's boring. But I know it's the most important thing I've ever saved.
Behind me, someone yawns.
I almost slam the laptop shut, but I force myself to act normal. Erika is waking on the sofa, stretching like a lazy cat.
"You're still looking at school stuff?" she asks.
I slide one tab forward showing a scholarship chart. "Yeah. Trying to find somewhere that won't bankrupt us."
She nods without suspicion. "Good. Also—buy the ice cream for next week. It's important for my mental health."
We argue lightly about flavors. I pretend nothing happened. She pretends life is normal. We both pretend the world hasn't changed.
When she goes to shower, I open the laptop again. I don't scroll further. Not today. Not yet. I just look at the folder name:
NC 789.11
A timestamp.A clue.A breadcrumb left behind by a man who knew something he shouldn't have known.
SITE 09 isn't a myth.It's real.
A ruin with a symbol no one should recognize. A place someone tried to bury under snow. A place that might have killed my parents.
As I shut the laptop and return it to the drawer, a thought forms slowly, carving itself into my mind like that scratched symbol:
I'm not waiting for answers anymore.
I'm going to find them.
Even if they were meant to stay frozen.