Morning arrived muted and slow, as if the sky were reluctant to pull itself out of darkness. The city was wrapped in a thin, pearly fog that softened every shape and blurred every sound. Mira walked through it numbly, her breath forming tiny clouds that disappeared faster than they formed. She hadn't slept—she'd barely even rested. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the man in the mahogany coat standing in the aisle, his expression a blend of longing and certainty, the past leaking through his voice like something mourned and remembered.
By the time she reached the archive, she felt hollowed out. Only habit moved her feet. Only instinct turned her hand on the cold brass door handle.
The moment she stepped inside, she sensed something off. Not wrong, exactly—more like the building was holding its breath.
Alex sat at the central desk, hunched over a folder, hair slightly messy as if he'd run his hands through it all night. A half-finished cup of coffee sat cooling beside his elbow. He looked up the moment he heard the door.
"Mira."
His voice was soft but heavy, like he'd been waiting for her.
"You look worse than I do," she joked weakly.
He didn't smile. "You didn't sleep."
She set her bag on the floor and slipped into the chair opposite him. "Can't imagine why."
Alex pushed the folder toward her. "This… might not help with the whole sleeping thing."
"Fantastic," she muttered, then opened it.
Inside was a single black-and-white photograph. Old. Worn. A universe of dust trapped under its glossy surface.
The girl in the picture stood in front of the archive building. Not the renovated version—this one had cracked stone steps, battered window frames, a peeling sign. The cars behind her were relics of history books and movies; nothing that had been on the road in her lifetime.
But those details barely registered.
What hit Mira like a strike to the ribs was the girl herself.
She had Mira's eyes.
Mira's cheekbones.
Mira's mouth.
Mira's exact birthmark—a faint crescent near the collarbone.
For a moment she forgot how to breathe.
"It's you," Alex murmured, watching her carefully.
"No," she whispered. "It can't be. This photo is almost fifty years old."
He didn't disagree. "Turn it over."
Her hands shook as she flipped it.
There, in faded handwriting:
She always returns.
The breath she tried to take got stuck halfway, trapped behind a rush of cold.
"Alex…" Her voice cracked. "Who wrote this?"
"I don't know. The file was in a locked case in the restricted section."
"That place you're not supposed to go?"
He ignored that. "The case label said 'anomalies.' Someone kept this hidden. On purpose."
Mira felt a throb behind her temples as if something inside her head was pushing outward, demanding to be remembered.
"Why would someone have a picture of me from 1974?" she whispered.
"Not you," Alex said gently. "But someone who looked exactly like you. Down to tiny details that shouldn't match unless—"
He cut himself off before finishing.
"Unless what?" Mira demanded.
He hesitated. Then softly:
"Unless you've lived before."
A shiver rippled down her spine.
"You think I'm being reincarnated?" She meant it as sarcasm, but it came out as fear.
"Not reincarnated. Something else." He tapped the photograph. "This isn't a random look-alike. The bone structure, the hairline—everything is the same. That doesn't happen."
Mira looked down at the face in the picture again.
And for a moment—just a moment—she felt like she knew the girl.
Like she remembered the day the photo had been taken.
Like she remembered the stiff fabric of the dress, the bow pulling her hair too tight, the photographer's strange instructions.
The sensation was gone as quickly as it came.
She swallowed hard. "Alex… something happened last night."
He straightened immediately, alert. "Tell me."
So she told him. Every detail.
The voice that wasn't a voice.
The hum that wasn't electricity.
The man in the mahogany coat whose presence felt like déjà vu stretched too far, like a memory pulled into the present.
When she finished, Alex looked shaken—but not surprised.
"Mira," he said quietly. "I wasn't going to show you this yet, but after what you just described…"
He reached under a stack of documents and pulled out another folder.
This one was older. Yellowed around the edges. He opened it, revealing a newspaper clipping so fragile it looked ready to disintegrate in their hands.
The headline read:
LOCAL WOMAN MAKES DISTURBING CLAIMS BEFORE UNEXPLAINED DEATH
A black-and-white photo beside the headline showed a woman—early twenties, terrified in a way the still image couldn't hide. Her hair, face, posture—everything looked like Mira.
Too much.
Way, way too much.
Mira's throat tightened. "She looks… like me."
"Her name was Evelyn Hart," Alex said. "Died in 1992. But before she did, she came here Every. Single. Day."
"To this archive?"
He nodded. "Her coworkers said she complained about voices behind the stacks. Someone following her. Shadows speaking."
A wave of nausea rose in Mira's stomach.
"She said she was remembering places she'd never been," Alex continued. "And seeing people who shouldn't exist anymore."
Mira gripped the edge of the table hard enough for her knuckles to whiten.
"What happened to her?" she whispered.
"They found her in her apartment," he said carefully. "Collapsed. No injuries. No visible cause. But her face—" He paused, swallowing. "She looked like she died of fear."
Mira pressed a hand to her mouth.
Alex reached out, fingers brushing her cheek to steady her. "Hey. Don't go there. You're not her."
"What if I am?" she whispered.
"You're not. Not exactly." His voice softened. "But Mira… these women—her, the girl in the photo, you—they're connected somehow. There's a pattern."
"What pattern?"
"Repetition," he said. "Something repeating itself across decades. Someone watching. Someone following. Maybe even the same someone you saw last night."
A faint buzz filled Mira's ears, like the beginning of a migraine.
Then—
The lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then steadied.
Alex went still. "Please tell me you saw that too."
"I saw it," Mira breathed.
And then she saw something else.
At the end of the far aisle stood a figure.
Tall.
Unmoving.
Head tilted just slightly—listening.
The foggy morning light from the windows didn't reach him. He was a silhouette made of deeper shadow, as if he belonged to some other layer of the world.
Alex's body tensed. "Mira… slowly step behind—"
"I see him," she whispered, voice trembling.
The figure didn't move. Didn't breathe. But the air around him shifted—like heat rippling off pavement. The edges of reality warping.
Then he stepped forward.
Not fast.
Not threatening.
Just inevitable.
"Mira." Alex grabbed her arm, pulling her behind him. "Stay back."
The figure opened his mouth.
Silence poured out.
But Mira heard something anyway—a pressure behind her thoughts, an echo in her bones.
I found you.
Her legs buckled.
Alex wrapped an arm around her waist before she could fall completely. "Mira! Hey—look at me. Stay with me."
She tried.
She really did.
But she couldn't tear her eyes from the figure.
He stepped closer. The shadows around him flickered like candlelight in a draft. The air buzzed faintly.
Then—
Darkness.
The lights went out completely for less than a second, but when they flickered back on—
He was gone.
Alex's grip on her tightened. "Mira, talk to me."
Her throat felt raw. "He… he was real."
"I know." His breathing was shaky, but his eyes stayed steady. "I saw him too."
Tears blurred her vision. "Alex… something is happening to me."
He brushed her hair from her face gently, his expression full of a quiet, fierce determination.
"Something is happening around you," he corrected. "But you're not facing it alone."
He pulled her into him then, holding her close. Mira let herself be held, burying her face against his shoulder. His shirt smelled like coffee and rain and something grounding she desperately needed.
His hands ran soothingly down her back. "It's okay," he murmured. "I've got you."
She didn't realize she was crying until she felt the warmth of tears on her cheeks.
Eventually, she pulled back, wiping her face. "Why me, Alex? Why does this keep happening to me?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I'm going to find out."
A faint sound echoed behind them.
Soft.
Barely perceptible.
Like a breath that wasn't theirs.
Both turned.
Mira's blood turned to ice.
A door stood open at the far end of the archive.
A door she had never seen before.
Painted a deep, flaking red.
Its hinges creaked softly, as if swaying from having just been pushed. The air around it shimmered faintly, like heat over asphalt—but colder.
Alex took a cautious step forward. "That door… it wasn't there five minutes ago."
"No," Mira whispered. "It wasn't there at all."
The man's echo, faint and distant, brushed the inside of her skull again—
Come back.
Her pulse hammered.
Her breath caught.
Her feet, without permission, shifted toward the open doorway.
Alex grabbed her hand. "Mira. Wait."
She turned to him slowly. His hand in hers trembled—just barely. He could see her moving toward something that called to her from places he couldn't reach.
"It's starting," she whispered.
Alex squeezed her hand tighter, as if trying to anchor her to the present.
"Mira… whatever happens next, I'm going with you."
She looked at him.
Really looked.
And for the first time since this all began, she didn't feel like she was falling alone.
Behind them, the red door creaked wider—waiting.
Welcoming.
Hungry.
Mira wiped the last of the tears from her face, turned toward the impossible doorway, and took a slow breath.
"Okay," she said softly. "Let's see what's behind it."
Together, hand in hand, they stepped forward.
And the archive seemed to exhale.