Maya had dreamed, a little, of working in a place like this:
The Museum of City Lore—a patchwork of history and rumor, artifacts and carefully preserved secrets tucked away just blocks from New Ashara's restless nightlife. She spent her days cataloguing objects, cross-referencing myth with headline, digitizing letters so old their ink bled into rumor.
Morning hours passed in the steady hush of climate-controlled galleries. She handled everything from murder scene transcripts to hand-carved talismans, sometimes barely stifling a laugh at the wildness of the city's collected legends. Still, there was always an undercurrent—like the stories didn't always end on the page.
Flashback: Interview With the Manager
Her first week was colored by memory:
Maya, nervous but hopeful in a clean button-down, sat across from Mr. Roche, who wore his tailored suits as armor and smiled without ever looking up from his notes.
"And tell me, Ms. Ali," he said without preamble, "What draws you to New Ashara's deeper history? The job goes far beyond what's on our plaques."
She'd expected questions about scanned inventories, not folklore.
"Urban myths fascinate me," she answered, choosing her words, "the stories people use to explain the city when the official records fall short."
Mr. Roche's pen stilled on paper. "Here, the official story always falls short." He closed the folder, meeting her gaze for the first time—eyes oddly ageless, reflecting the gleam of his desk lamp. "You'll spend long nights with material others fear to touch—incidents with no public file, names that don't fade out of the records. Some say our museum keeps more than artifacts locked up overnight."
He let the silence stretch.
"Will that trouble you?"
Maya swallowed, feeling the chill beneath his words, but forced a smile. "No, sir. I'd just be curious enough to find out why."
That seemed to please him. He returned her smile—sharp, satisfied.
"Curiosity is our greatest asset." He slid a keycard across the desk. "And sometimes, our greatest curse."
Present Day: Evening at the Museum
Most days, the job was routine—scanning crates of old newspapers, greeting researchers, cataloguing shadowy objects with half-remembered histories. But the artifacts themselves seemed to hum after sundown, the stories a little too close to her skin.
It was nearly closing when a couple entered—too late for the tour, but not quite after hours. They looked… remarkable. Both of average height and pale, dressed in elegant dark clothing, their features sharp as if carved from porcelain. The man's eyes glinted like steel coins; the woman's lips curved in a knowing smile. They moved through the gallery with unerring grace, hands never brushing so much as a display.
"Excuse me," Maya said, polite. "We're closing soon, but let me know if there's anything I can help you find."
The woman smiled, voice mellifluous but oddly flat. "Of course, curator. We're only here for a little nostalgia… and perhaps a particular volume." Her accent was unfamiliar, old world by way of forgotten ports.
The man's gaze settled on Maya. "You keep fascinating things here. Dangerous things, some might say. Have you ever seen artifacts that… bite?"
Maya managed a laugh, but her skin prickled. "Not yet. Only stories."
He smiled—a flash of teeth. "The best stories have teeth, Ms. Ali."
Her name? She didn't remember introducing herself. Her hands shook, just faintly.
The couple walked to the "Founders Legend" display—a velvet-draped case with a silver key, a blood-red leaf perfectly preserved, and a faded family crest hiding tree roots. They lingered, speaking quiet words in some language Maya didn't know, their fingers hovering, never touching the glass.
As she watched, Maya realized how little noise they made. No footfall, no whisper of fabric. She wondered, sudden and certain, if she would see them reflected in the glass if she dared to look.
A bell chimed. They turned together, faces too-perfect masks.
"Thank you for your time, Ms. Ali," the woman said with a deep nod. "We found what we were looking for."
They slipped out into the darkening hall, shadows trailing too long behind them.
Maya stood by the case, her skin cold, the weight of antique keys and city legends pressing down on her chest.
She would log the incident, as always. She'd note the visitors. But she knew—tomorrow, when she checked the camera feed, there'd be just static where the couple had stood.
And far below, in the locked sub-basement, a series of sensors would begin quietly blinking—a root system stirring, a record in the vault coming un-shelved for the first time in decades.
The next day came and gone as as normal. Like passing of the wind Maya joined several coworkers in the break room—sharing dull laughter, the hum of vending machines, and the ritual complaints about weekend shifts as everyone unveiled there bags/ bowls/ boxes of lunch.
During a lull, Maya asked, "Have any of you… had weird encounters with museum visitors? I mean, beyond the usual kids on field trips and people who think 'no flash' means 'please blind the paintings.'"
Rachel, the senior desk attendant, snorted. "Define weird. I had a guy yell at me last month because the snack bar closed at five. Another who wanted to touch the daggers in the 'Unsolved Murders' display. Sometimes you just get creeps—most are just bored or rude."
Elijah, who ran educational tours, chimed in. "Foreign visitors sometimes ask about stuff we don't even display—old coins, letters, family records. Had a group insist we take them into a back room they heard about online. Sometimes they linger after closing, saying they lost track of time, but they don't cause trouble."
The others chimed in, trading stories of moody teens, lost tourists, and parents who argued over parking validation.
But then, Tomas—the night archive tech, gray at the temples and quiet unless asked directly—spoke in a low voice.
"There was one time, about two years ago," Tomas said, eyes far away. "A pair came in together. Dressed nice, polite, but… peculiar. Asked questions about things not in the catalog. Something called 'the Red Ledger.' Never heard of it. Woman kept glancing at the old founders' display—said the family tree was 'missing roots.' When I asked for clarification, she grinned and said most roots run too deep to display."
A chill ran through Maya's shoulders. She recognized the phrase—part of the lost vampire lore buried in the city's legends.
Tomas continued, "They had a way of… making you forget things, or at least not wanting to remember. After they left, I found two dried red leaves on the display case. No wind, no open windows. Just there."
Rachel rolled her eyes. "Probably pranksters. City's full of them."
But Tomas just smiled, thin and careful. "Pranks don't leave shadows in places cameras can't see. Trust me, Maya—sometimes you log the incident, double-lock the vault, and let sleeping legends lie."
The break room grew quiet as Maya sat back, mind spinning. Maybe, she thought, some stories were more than just tales—especially in New Ashara, where every shadow carried a secret and every polite visitor might be hunting something with teeth.