The museum never closed, but most nights it felt like a mausoleum. Aven's footsteps echoed through the cavernous halls, past glass cases lit by flickering neon tubes. He clutched his clipboard, jotting down catalog numbers beside cracked labels that read things like: "Dream-Transference Console (Model never built)" or "Personal Quantum Shield (Patent denied, 2144)."
Some exhibits hummed softly, though none were supposed to be functional. Others leaked black oil onto the tile floor, or whispered in static when he got too close.
The museum was built under the old city, beneath rusted iron and forgotten subway lines. Few people ever visited anymore. Fewer stayed past sunset. Aven sometimes wondered if the place was alive—breathing in the shadows, remembering every step he took.
He paused by a cracked display case. Inside was an odd, skeletal machine—spidery limbs, half-formed circuits, wires that looked almost organic. The label read only: "Prototype: Memory Harvester (never approved)."
Aven frowned. He didn't remember seeing this one before. He checked his list. No entry. No record.
A chill crawled up his neck.
*Probably misfiled,* he thought.
But as he scribbled a note to check the archives later, a flash of movement in the glass caught his eye. He looked up.
A reflection stood behind him—a tall figure in the faint glow of neon. A woman, hair pale as frost, wearing a coat made of sleek silver fabric he didn't recognize.
He spun around. The hallway was empty.
"Aven," a voice whispered, soft as dust.
He turned back to the glass. The reflection was gone. His own pale face stared back at him, eyes wide, breath fogging the case.
Aven backed away slowly, almost dropping his clipboard.
The lights overhead buzzed and flickered. Somewhere in the dark, something creaked—like metal bending under unseen weight.
He glanced down at the display case again. The label had changed.
It no longer said anything about prototypes or denied patents. Instead, in clear, blocky letters, it read:
"AVEN SERO — Curator. Record of Termination Pending."
His heart stopped.
"What…" he breathed.
The lights went out completely. For a moment, the museum was pitch black. Then, in the dark, he heard footsteps. Soft, deliberate, coming closer.
He whispered into the emptiness:
"Who's there?"
No answer—only the quiet shuffle of feet on tile, moving just beyond where he could see.
He fumbled with his penlight, flicking it on. The beam stabbed through the dark, illuminating dust and cracked tile. But the hallway was empty.
Then, in the beam, a sliver of silver fabric vanished around a corner.
Aven swallowed hard.
*I have to know.*
He followed.
Around the corner, the light fell across another exhibit—an old television flickering with static. As he stepped closer, the screen shifted, resolving into an image.
It was him—older, hair streaked with gray, standing in this same hallway, holding the same clipboard. But behind him in the screen's flickering image, the museum was on fire, neon signs shattered, glass cases broken and burning.
Aven reached out, fingertips brushing the dusty glass.
The older version of him turned, eyes meeting his. And then the screen went dark.
His hand trembled.
*What is this place becoming?* he thought.
The footsteps came again, closer now.
He backed away, clutching the clipboard to his chest.
In the darkness, something whispered.
"Some futures fail because they were never supposed to exist."