Inside, everything is exactly where I left it.
Cracked teacup.
Tarnished spoon.
Brooch, ribbon, mirror.
The filigree box with its neat little hoard.
The tissue paper in the corner is still crumpled where the ring used to sit. There's even a faint circular impression pressed into it, like the absence is heavy enough to leave its own mark.
The box looks smaller without it.
Less superior.
"Congratulations, you've successfully redistributed your chaos."
The ring on my finger warms, just a little.
My clipboard sits where I abandoned it yesterday. I pull it closer, the page greeting me with tidy notes and half-finished descriptions, my handwriting still perfectly straight even though the person who wrote it had no idea what was coming.
My phone buzzes twice in my pocket, then a third time.
I don't look.
I'm not thinking about yesterday.
Or the geyser of apologies that I've been bombarded with.
Or the realization that apparently, when something ancient and sentient welds itself to your bone, it becomes shockingly easy to close a door you kept propping open for people who never earned the space.
I'm not proud of that.
I'm not ashamed either.
Maybe numb counts as healing.
Maybe it's just shock wearing a different coat.
Either way, I'm at work. And work is safe. Predictable. Labelable.
So that's what I focus on.
"Okay," I tell myself quietly. "We're doing this. Normal day. Normal cataloging. Weird parasite jewelry can sit quietly and think about what it's done."
I start with the easy items.
Item 1: ceramic teacup, floral pattern, hairline crack along rim, probable mid-18th century.
Item 2: silver-plated spoon, tarnish consistent with age, possible monogram under oxidation.
Item 3: brooch, brass base, missing central stone, broken clasp.
The familiar rhythm settles my nerves. Helps me forget. Object, description, condition, possible provenance. Little anchors. Little truths I can still control.
I move down the list, filling in what I didn't get to yesterday.
When I reach the line labeled:
Item 7: silver ring – description pending
everything in me slows.
The blank space next to it waits patiently. I stare, pen hovering.
How exactly am I supposed to phrase "mystery ring melted into my flesh and now lets me detect lies and meet strange men in my dreams" on an official museum document?
I tap the pen against the clipboard.
Technically, the ring is still part of the donation. Ethically, I should record it accurately. Professionally, I should probably tell someone.
Personally, I really don't want to have this conversation with Harold.
"Okay, compromise," I murmur.
I lower the pen and write:
Silver ring – currently misplaced. Plain band, no visible marks. To be located and described at later date.
The ring constricts around my pinky, sudden and sharp. Not enough to break anything, but tight enough that my breath catches.
"Ow," I hiss.
The word "misplaced" blurs.
Ink feathers at the edges the way it does when you write on damp paper. The black lines wrinkle, then bleed, then fade, like someone hit delete on that one word and left the rest untouched.
I stare.
The rest of the sentence stays crisp.
Only that single word is gone.
The ring throbs once in time with my pulse.
"Seriously?" I whisper.
Fine. Let's try this again.
Silver ring – removed from box. Currently not available for standard cataloging.
The moment the pen lifts from the page, heat blooms under the metal and climbs up my hand, my wrist, my arm. It never reaches true burn, but my eyes still water.
The words "not available" smear, twist, and then vanish from the page like invisible hands are editing over my work.
My skin prickles.
"All right," I say through my teeth. "We hate euphemisms. Got it."
I grip the pen tighter.
Absolute, literal truth then. Let's see what happens.
Slowly, carefully, I write:
Silver ring – no visible maker's mark. Currently adhered to right-hand fifth finger of staff member (Evelyn Hale). Removal attempts: unsuccessful.
The ring goes very still.
The ink doesn't blur. Nothing fades. The line sits there on the page, stark, neat, and undeniable.
"Unbelievable. You're fact-checking me?"
I tilt the clipboard, like a different angle might change anything. It doesn't. The sentence is still there, perfectly legible and completely horrifying.
Out of petty defiance, I underline "unsuccessful."
The ring warms again, but this time it's a gentle pulse, almost approving. Like I've finally said what it wanted me to say.
I lean back on the stool and study my hand.
"Okay, so you don't just hate lies out loud. You hate lies on paper too. Uncompromising little tyrant."
The realization settles over me, heavy and cold.
Whatever this thing is, it doesn't want half-truths.
It wants the whole thing.
In other people.
In me.
In the archives.
I look back down at the form, at the single line that's made my entire situation feel more real.
Currently adhered to right-hand fifth finger of staff member (Evelyn Hale).
For a long moment, all I can do is stare at my own name.
I set the clipboard aside and look back into the shoebox, at the cracked teacup, the spoon, the ribbon, the empty ring-shaped dent in the tissue.
"There's something I'm still missing."
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know they're true. I can feel it in the same way I feel the ring on my finger, deep and certain.
For the first time since this started, the thought that rises isn't Why is this happening to me?
It's: What else does it want me to see?
The world around me starts to shift. Nothing theatrical. No dramatic gust, no fluttering petals, no horror movie soundtrack. Just a veil slipping out of place. A subtle shiver. The kind of change you notice more in your skin than your eyes.
I glance down at the form.
The line about the ring is still there, sharp and dark. Everything above it looks slightly off, like I'm looking at a bad photocopy. The ink is lighter. The strokes are uncertain. The letters don't quite sit where I put them.
"Did I really write it like that?"
The ring warms on my finger, which is not reassuring.
I look over the rest of the page and watch as the ink softens at the edges. The text blurs, thins, then drifts outward, leaving only faint ghosts where my notes used to be.
"What the hell?"
Descriptions fade. Phrases collapse into empty lines. My careful handwriting dissolves one stroke at a time, pulled under like sand in a receding wave. When it's done, only two words remain on each line, stubborn and untouched.
Item. Number.
No details.
No attributes.
No truth left to attach.
The ring gives a low thrum that might be approval. Might be warning. Might be an evil mix of both.
My stomach twists and my attention travels back to the box.
The objects aren't gone. They're just different now.
Where the cracked teacup should be is a vessel of pale, translucent stone. The floral pattern is gone, replaced by thin, shifting lines that don't seem to want to be looked at directly. The tarnished spoon has become a narrow spiral of dark metal that looks like cooled volcanic glass. The broken brass brooch has turned into a delicate knot of fine silver threads that rise and fall in a slow, deliberate rhythm, like breathing.
The ribbon floats a fraction above the bottom of the box. The mirror is a sliver of polished stone that reflects the shelves behind me in perfect detail and refuses to show me at all.
Strangely, the only thing that feels relatively the same is the metal box. It's still a box, but the plain filigree has become pure gold, its surface studded with jewels the size of beetles. At least the function is familiar, even if the form absolutely is not.
A small, startled sound catches in my throat. "What happened to…"
I reach for the vessel because I think I need something solid to hold. It's cold enough to sting and heavier than it should be. Symbols carved along the rim pulse faintly, no brighter than a heartbeat under skin, just enough to make my fingertips tingle.
Heat gathers under the ring again and slides up my arm in a slow, insistent line.
Look here.
My gaze follows the pull to another new shape tucked into the corner of the box.
A folded scrap of thick, yellowed paper. Frayed edges. Soft surface. It looks ancient, but it's new to me. Just like everything else in this ghost-forsaken collection.
My stomach flips as I unfold it.
Inside, written in delicate, curling script, is a single line.
Witness what remains.
The paper warms against my palms.
The ring warms in answer.
For a moment, it feels less like they're speaking to me and more like they're speaking through me.
I'm meant to see this.
All of it.
Whether I want to or not.
Carefully, I set the page on the table. My hands shake.
"We're not in Kansas anymore. We're not even in North America. We're… somewhere else."
The vessel.
The breathing silver.
The floating strip of cloth.
The mirror that refuses to acknowledge me.
The treasure box of gold.
None of it fits anywhere on the map in my head.
Every rational part of me wants to go find Monica and tell her something is very wrong. That I'm seeing things that don't exist. That the donation isn't what anyone thinks it is. That I may need to be institutionalized.
The ring pulses again, warm and focused.
Don't run.
Work.
Of course.
"The crushing weight of capitalism extends to hallucinations now, huh?"
I pull the clipboard back toward me and write the only honest thing I can.
Item 1: Vessel of unknown stone. Age: indeterminate. Origin: unknown.
The ring stays quiet.
For once, the words remain exactly where I put them. No smearing. No vanishing. Apparently brutal honesty passes the test. Small mercy.
A soft knock breaks the quiet, followed by the distinct sound of our cataloging-room door cracking open. Monica pokes her head inside. Her hair is perfect. Her expression is not.
"Evie?" Monica whispers, voice low but edged with irritation. "I know I promised. And I really meant it. But Dr. Leighton is a day early, and he's already in the main room smiling at people like a golden retriever with a checkbook."
Of course he is.
I stand so fast my stool wobbles. With the door closed, I hadn't seen the front entrance open or heard anyone come in. Normally, I'd have line of sight across the whole archives floor, but right now my private bubble has turned into a very inconvenient cave.
"I'm so sorry," Monica adds. "I tried to stall, but he's got that whole 'charming academic who pays our bills' thing going, and you know how Harold gets when donors roam unsupervised. Please don't hate me."
I smooth my pants with a hand that's absolutely not shaking. "Don't worry. We'll have him in and out in fifteen minutes."
"I swear I fought for you," she murmurs like she's smuggling state secrets as we wave over the interloper. "Who shows up twenty-four hours early for a tour of archival teacups?"
I smile at her, but she just sighs, steps forward, and gestures him in with all the weary dignity of a knight escorting royalty into battle.
"Dr. Leighton," she announces brightly. "Here to see the newest donation."
And just like that, the room fills with warm sweaters, old-money charm, and a very foreboding assistant standing directly behind him.
"Miss Hale," Dr. Leighton says. "Wonderful to see you. Harold says you've had a rather interesting anonymous donation."
Professional mode clicks into place with the obligatory friendly smile. "So great to see you again. What's it been, three months?"
"Something like that." He gives the room a fond once-over. It's a small cement block space filled with industrial metal shelves lined with items waiting to be sorted and a couple of desks that probably predate some of the archives themselves. "I wish I could spend more time back here, but apparently they expect me to keep funding grants so the lights stay on."
A familiar warmth brushes my hand.
Is he telling the truth about something I'd always considered empty platitudes?
The answer lands with quiet certainty. Yes.
The warmth steadies. I exhale.
He really does wish he were in here instead of wherever he usually spends his time. There's something endearing about that.
He moves toward the box with practiced curiosity. His gaze drops to the contents and his face brightens.
"Oh, these are delightful. The teacup is older than I expected. Lovely peony pattern."
For one breath, I assume I misheard him.
I look into the box, brow furrowed in confusion.
The vessel still sits there, all impossible stone and shifting carvings, faint glow along its surface.
He sees a floral teacup.
I see something that doesn't belong on this planet.
"And the brooch," he goes on, apparently unaware of how hard my fingers are pressing into the back of the chair. "The setting is more delicate than it looked in the photo. Quite worn, but charming all the same. My wife is going to love hearing about these."
My pulse thumps once, heavy and unpleasant, but I keep my face neutral and pleasant.
He's describing the original items. Calmly. Casually. As if the breathing silver knot in front of me is still just tired brass.
I line the clipboard up with the edge of the table to buy myself a second. How am I supposed to talk about what he's seeing while telling the truth about what I'm seeing?
"They came in unexpectedly, but with limited damage," I say, smiling.
The ring warms. Truth accepted.
Dr. Leighton hums in approval. "I expect they'll clean up nicely. Always satisfying when things arrive with fewer surprises than you fear." He glances at me. "You'll have to tell us what you find. My wife adores a good before and after story."
"I should be finished with the assessment this afternoon," I say. "Everything seems straightforward so far."
He studies my face with mild curiosity. "You seem a little tense, Miss Hale. Is everything all right?"
A small, practiced smile finds its way to my mouth. "Truthfully, it's been a strange morning. Getting my bearings with interesting work."
The ring stays quiet. Acceptable.
He laughs softly. "That I understand." He hesitates then, like he's debating something. "Actually, that reminds me. My wife and I are hosting a small dinner tonight. Nothing formal, I promise. We keep talking about how we never see the people who do the real work around here. I know she'd just love to have you join us."
He looks past me to Monica. "Both of you, if you're free."
Monica blinks, then brightens in that careful, professional way. "That's very kind of you."
"I'm serious," he says to me now. "You spend so many hours caring for history that you'll forget the present exists." His eyes soften. "Let us feed you for once. No shop talk unless you want it."
The old me, pre-ring, would've defaulted to a vague "maybe." The kind that means "no." The thought alone makes the ring tighten, a quiet warning at the edge of my awareness, and I mentally hurl curse words in its general direction.
"I don't have any plans," I hear myself say. "I have no reason to decline."
Monica looks like I just started stripping in the middle of the room. I'm sure she assumed I'd say anything at all but that. She's not wrong.
He smiles, genuinely pleased. "Excellent. Elias will send you the details so I don't forget anything." He glances toward the door. "Speaking of which, where has he gone off to…"
As if summoned, someone steps into the doorway behind him.
A second figure appears, and for a moment I forget whatever professional expression I was holding together.
He's tall, with an easily recognizable athletic build beneath well-tailored seams. The jacket fits him like it was cut directly against his shoulders. He holds a tablet at his side with the kind of easy assurance that says he's used to juggling ten tasks at once and has never dropped one. The overall effect is polished, striking, and more than a little distracting.
The air in the room seems to tighten and bend around him. Not colder. Just heavier. Denser.
Dr. Leighton brightens. "There you are. Elias, this is Evelyn Hale, our archivist miracle worker, and Monica Reyes, who keeps the whole place from falling apart."
Elias offers a small, courteous nod. Up close, his face is even more arresting. All sharp lines and elegance. Long dirty blond hair tied up in a messy bun, eyes such a pale blue they're nearly silver. Features that land somewhere between handsome and genetically unfair.
"Pleasure to meet you," he says in an accent I'm not quite familiar with.
His voice is smooth and perfectly polite, but there's something under it. A resonance that hums faintly in the same place the ring sits against my skin. Not sound exactly. More like vibration.
The ring stirs the moment he speaks, a low hum beneath my ribs. Not about truth this time. About him.
Dr. Leighton gestures between us. "And this is Elias Mercer. Wonderfully indispensable but refuses to record his hours honestly."
"I log exactly what I work," Elias says, sounding resigned.
"Yes, yes, too little for what you deserve. And a man needs to settle down at some point. Preferably before I retire." Dr. Leighton turns to me, dropping his voice conspiratorially. "Tell him that, will you? He never listens to me."
Elias exhales through his nose, the expression on his face hovering somewhere between long-suffering and fondness. "We're here to review the donation, sir. Not…" His gaze slides back to me, sharp and assessing, head ever so slightly tilted. "My relationship status."
Curiosity prickles at the back of my mind. On instinct more than intent, I reach for the ring's power again, focusing on the question that's already forming.
I'd never considered that I could call the ring's power at will. I thought it was just a tiny truth-inquisitor attaching itself to me to teach me the lesson of being true to myself or… something out of a Christmas Carol. I hadn't thought about it too much before now, actually. A lot had happened.
Is he as calm as he sounds?
The ring answers by flaring suddenly warm. For a heartbeat, everything sharpens. My awareness narrows to the point where his presence sits in the room, large and coiled. In that moment, everyone else disappears and it's just the two of us. Intimate. Alone. The space between us slowly disappearing.
Elias's eyes catch the overhead light, and for that same heartbeat, I swear there's a thin edge of gold circling the pale iris. Not a glow. A gleam. Heat under metal.
I blink. It's gone.
What. The. Fuck. Was. That.
My heartbeat has decided to attempt a jailbreak and I instinctively press a hand to my collarbone to rein it back in.
I realize I've been staring too long. I shouldn't be able to notice something like that and I definitely shouldn't be responding to a pretty face like this.
Embarrassing.
He probably has men and women throwing themselves at him all the time and here I am assaulting him with my eyes in a professional setting. That's probably why he's giving me that look. The intense one I'm going to focus all my efforts on ignoring from this moment forward. I mentally chastise myself for being a perv in the workplace.
"Yes, yes." Dr. Leighton waves him off, then seems to remember his train of thought. "Right. Dinner. We'd love to have you both. Are you seeing anyone, Miss Hale? Miss Reyes? You're both welcome to bring someone."
There's no pressure in the question. No matchmaking glint. Just genuine curiosity from a man who likes knowing whether people have someone in their corner.
The answer's simple now. The ring doesn't move.
"No," I say, irritated at how exposed these answers make me feel after what I just experienced. "Just me, I'm afraid."
"Ah." He nods, satisfied with the honesty more than the content. "Well. Bring yourself then. That's more than enough."
Monica adds her own similar answer and lightly jokes about babysitting Harold's calendar. She and Dr. Leighton leave to continue the private tour.
I meet Elias's gaze for the barest moment, hoping I don't have a repeat of the last time.
He's staring at me without reserve now that we're actually alone. Cool. Assessing.
Something sharp flickers behind his eyes, and I get the distinct sense of being tagged and filed.
He shifts his attention back to the worktable, eyeing the box of curiosities. "I'll send a message this afternoon with the time and address," he says. "If there's anything Dr. Leighton needs to review before he leaves, just let me know." He hands me a card and I take it without allowing myself any more eye contact. I doubt my heart could take it. He needs to come with a health warning.
Caution: May cause palpitations and strong out-of-body experiences. Not for the faint of heart.
That same familiar resonance threads through his words, settling where the ring rests. The lighting in the room seems to favor him for a moment, edges brightened, shadows bending slightly around his frame.
I clear my throat and rely on my usual steady cadence. "I think we're all set. Thank you." I say looking down at the card without reading a word.
One last professional look and that is it.
Something shifts in his expression when I finally look up again. A flicker of curiosity. Calculation. The sense of someone who's just added a new variable to a mental spreadsheet and intends to track it closely.
Then he nods once. "Very well."
He follows after Dr. Leighton, long stride unhurried, and the room feels different the moment he's gone. Not safer. Just emptier.
I wait until their footsteps fade down the hall before releasing a slow breath I didn't realize I was holding.
The ring warms in a way that feels deliberate.
When I look back at the box, I sigh.
Well. Nothing's changed.
Not again, at least.
No one saw any of it.
Only I did.
And I'm no longer sure which version of reality I should believe.