There's nothing quite like walking into the archives before sunrise. Everything quiet, organized, and waiting to be cataloged.
The air is still cool from the night before, and the motion lights flicker on in slow, apologetic waves as I make my way past the stacks. It smells like dust, old paper, and the kind of silence that feels curated, not lonely. My favorite kind.
Nothing unpredictable ever happens here. I tell myself that's a good thing.
Mostly, it is.
I clock in, shrug off my coat, and drop my bag at my workstation. Monica hasn't arrived yet, thank God, so I have at least twenty uninterrupted minutes before she starts her daily war crimes against our filing systems and filling me in on the latest serial killer documentary. I've never been a fan of those. They always seem to idolize the killer, while the victims are just footnotes.
I take a sip of my coffee, savor the stillness, and run my hand along the edge of my desk out of habit. Everything is exactly where I left it yesterday. Alphabetized. Labeled. Predictable.
A small, perfect universe where everything makes sense.
Which is why the unmarked shoebox sitting dead center on my cart makes zero sense.
I frown. It's plain, old, and definitely not logged into yesterday's intake. No accession sticker. No catalog slip. No anything.
Just sitting there like it walked in on its own.
And of course it's on my cart. Monica always dumps the mysteries on me. "You like puzzles," she says, which is not incorrect. I just like order.
Still, I feel that familiar spark in my chest, the one that shows up whenever I get to dig into something old and forgotten.
"Well," I murmur, sliding it toward me, "let's see what you are."
I sigh and push the lid open.
At first glance, it's exactly what I expect from a badly logged donation: a handful of ordinary objects tossed together with the enthusiasm of someone clearing out an attic before moving.
I pull on a pair of nitrile gloves before digging any deeper. Paper I trust my hands with. Random object donations are a different story. Those get gloves. I've pulled out everything from moldy prayer candles to a taxidermied squirrel someone swore was "vintage." Never again.
I pull out:
• A cracked teacup.
• A tarnished silver spoon.
• A dull brooch with a missing stone.
• A fraying velvet ribbon.
• A hand mirror with a scratched surface.
• A small metal box with filigree so fine it looks machine made.
Inside that:
• A brass key with no matching lock.
• A handful of pressed dried flowers.
• A coin I don't recognize but assume is foreign based on the markings.
• A child's marble or glass bead.
• A bundle of dried lavender tied with black thread.
All mundane. All harmless. All waiting for me to give them the dignity of a written record.
I set a few of them aside, making mental notes, until something glints at the bottom of the box.
Nestled in tissue paper so old it crumbles at my touch is a silver ring. Simple. Metal worn smooth by time. Too large for any hand I've ever seen.
I lift it carefully, and the moment it touches my palm, I'm struck by how cold it is.
Not just cold. It's freezing.
I set the ring back down carefully on the tissue paper, the cold lingering in my fingertips despite the gloves. It doesn't fade the way I expect. It sits in my skin, a thin, bright ache. Probably just the type of metal.
Picking up the ring again, it doesn't have any other markings at all. No maker's mark. No material stamp. Just a plain silver ring. That's frustrating.
Without those, I'm working blind. A lot of guessing and assumptions. I hate those.
I pull a clipboard toward me, click my pen, and start jotting down quick notes about the other objects. Age estimates. Condition. Material. Potential provenance. Little anchors of logic to keep the morning tidy.
The ring sits there like an accusation.
I pointedly ignore it.
I'm halfway through describing the filigree box when the door bangs open hard enough to rattle the shelving.
"GOOD MORNING, SUNSHINE!"
Monica barrels in wearing a scarf loud enough to commit visual assault and holding two iced lattes like she's dual wielding caffeine. Her hair looks like she lost a fight with both a blow dryer and a small tornado.
The archives wince at her presence. The silence curls up and dies.
"I brought you the caramel one," she announces, dropping it beside my elbow. "You're welcome. Oh! And guess what I watched last night?"
I don't look up from my notes. "If the answer is another serial killer documentary, we're going to have words. Thank you for the coffee."
"It was a serial killer documentary!" she beams, like this is the best news I could ever receive. "But this guy? Oh my God. Total monster. You'd have hated every second."
"I normally do."
She leans over my cart before I can stop her, eyes zeroing in on the shoebox. "Ooooh, new stuff! Love when donations look like they're hiding a murder weapon."
"They're not," I say automatically.
"They could be. Look at that creepy little box. Oh, is that a ring?" She reaches for it.
I slap her hand on instinct. "Gloves, Monica."
"Ow. Fine. You're such a buzzkill, Evie." She rummages for a glove from the box by the door, pulling it on with a theatrical sigh.
When she picks it up, she notes the same things I did. "No maker's mark? No stamps? Pfft, good luck with this one." She sets it back down on my desk, not mentioning anything about its strange temperature.
I can still feel the cold in my bones.
Monica breezes on. "So anyway, the documentary. There was this twist halfway through where…"
Her voice turns into a distant buzz as I catch the slightest shimmer on the ring's surface. Barely anything. A catch of the light. A breath.
I blink.
It's back to normal.
Right. I definitely need more coffee.
Monica keeps talking, something about a neighbor who "definitely has bodies in his compost bin, Evie, I'm telling you," but my attention drifts. I nod at the right moments, make the occasional noise of agreement, and try not to glance at the ring like it's a stray cat that might decide to follow me home.
Eventually, I'm interrupted by Harold's shouts down the corridor about a catastrophic donor spreadsheet error, which is just Harold speak for "I lost a file and need someone to blame."
I head off to rescue him from his own incompetence.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of normal tasks: relabeling shelves that mysteriously rearranged themselves overnight (Monica), sifting through a donation of old yearbooks, fielding three calls about tours, fixing Harold's spreadsheet, and promising myself for the fifth time this week that I will absolutely clean my desk tomorrow.
I don't touch the shoebox again.
I don't touch the ring.
By the time I'm packing up, the cold I felt earlier has faded completely, and the box looks as mundane and harmless as anything else in the archives.
Just cataloging waiting to happen.
Nothing more.
Traffic is terrible, like always, but my favorite podcast is playing and makes time go by a bit faster. The banter is secondary to the segment on a recent archaeological find: a new species of T. Rex. I stop at the grocery store and pick up the ingredients I need for dinner, podcast in tow. Normal things. Routine things. Everything I love about my life.
When I unlock the apartment door, the entryway light flickers once, then stays dark. Right. The bulb Ash promised to replace two weeks ago is still out.
Not the end of the world, just one more thing we've both been "meaning to get to." I tap the switch again anyway, because hope springs eternal.
No luck.
Warm, familiar voices greet me from the living room.
"Evie!" My best friend, Rowan, is curled up on the couch with a glass of wine, my fuzzy socks on, looking like she's lived here her whole life.
"You're early," I say, dropping my bag.
"My meeting got canceled." She lifts her wine like a toast. "Which means free time, which means bothering you."
I grin. "Fair."
Before I can kick off my shoes, a pair of arms wrap around my waist from behind.
"Hey, love." My fiancé, Ash, presses a kiss to my cheek and smells like lavender and fresh laundry, the comfort combo. "Good day?"
"Mm. Busy."
He hums like that's the end of the topic. I wait for him to ask more, but the moment passes like it usually does.
I lean into him. It's automatic. Easy.
Rowan eyes us over her glass. "You two are disgustingly cute. I'm filing a complaint."
"Please do," I say. "Human Resources needs more paperwork."
"Ashley, can you grab the wine?" Rowan calls.
I feel Ash's body tense behind me before I even see his expression. "Haha. Reminding me my parents hated me again?" he says with a laugh that's a little too practiced.
I chuckle, but I know how much he hates hearing his full name.
Rowan smirks over the rim of her glass.
Well. This is going to be a fun evening.
We talk about nothing in particular. Rowan's annoying coworker. Ash's work dinner plans for Friday. The weird guy at her apartment. A new intern at his firm. Normal. Comforting. Safe.
A part of me wants to tell them about the strange shoebox donation. The cold ring. The moment that felt off.
But I don't. They're on a roll, and I don't want to interrupt.
At one point, just a split second, Rowan gives me a strange look. A flicker of concern. Or confusion.
Her eyes flick to a point just over my shoulder, sharp and unfocused, like she's reacting to something I can't see.
I open my mouth to ask what's wrong, but she blinks and smiles like nothing happened.
And I let it go.
Probably just the wine.
The evening continues in warm, soft murmurs: dinner, laughter, Netflix, the quiet rhythm of contentment.
Eventually Rowan complains about said canceled meeting being rescheduled for first thing in the morning and having to head out.
I'm stacking leftovers in the fridge when Ash leans against the counter behind me.
"By the way," he says, casually, "Rowan said she might come over again tomorrow. Invited herself, obviously."
I smile over my shoulder. "She probably just wants company. You know how she gets when she's not dating anyone."
He hums, low and noncommittal.
When I step past him toward the bedroom, his hand catches my waist.
It's meant to be affectionate, soft, familiar, coupley. But my whole body goes tense before I can stop it.
Because I know this move. He only touches me like this when he wants it to lead somewhere.
And I'm already emotionally drained.
My body tenses before my mind catches up. The reaction is too familiar for how little I'm supposed to think about it.
His breath warms the side of my neck. "Hey… we have the rest of the night to ourselves. Just us."
I laugh, but it feels thin. "Ash, I'm wiped. Seriously. Rain check?"
His hands fall away immediately.
"Yeah," he says, forcing a smile. "Sure. Figures."
It's quiet. Not angry. Just disappointed enough to make me feel like I'm the one messing up.
I open my mouth to say something, apologize maybe, but he's already climbing into bed, turning off his lamp like nothing happened.
So I swallow the moment.
And let it go.
Like I always do.
I change into pajamas in the dark bathroom, lit only by the buzzing vanity light. I stare at my reflection for a moment, the exhaustion sitting neatly under my eyes like it knows where it belongs.
On my nightstand, the paperback I've been "reading" for the last month waits with a cracked spine and a dog eared page. I pick it up, thumb the corner, but my brain is already drifting back to tomorrow's work schedule.
I want to read. I just want to not be more tired tomorrow even more.
I set the book facedown again. It will keep.
The apartment settles into its usual quiet as I slip under the covers. It's not bad, just a little too still once Rowan's gone and the dishes are put away. The kind of silence that makes you suddenly aware of your own breathing.
For a split second, I consider turning on a lamp or getting one of those tiny nightlights, something to make the space feel less flat. But Ash would tease me for it, so I push the thought aside.
I sink into the pillow and let my eyes fall shut.
I think vaguely about the ring, about the shoebox waiting on my desk, and remind myself to take proper photos of everything tomorrow. Work things always get done. Home things, less so.
Ash breathes steadily beside me.
And the last thought I have before sleep takes me is annoyingly small: I really should replace that hallway bulb myself.