The university's library was old enough to have its own silence — not the kind made by absence, but the kind that came from memory, a stillness that pressed against the skin.
It stood like a monument to thought, four stories of stone and shadow rising from the heart of campus. Inside, pale shafts of light filtered through Gothic windows, catching in the dust and falling like ghosts across rows of oak shelves. The air carried the scent of old paper and polished varnish, thick with the weight of centuries. Vaulted ceilings arched high above, painted with fading constellations few noticed anymore. Along the upper galleries, portraits of forgotten scholars stared down from tarnished frames, their expressions caught somewhere between pride and warning.
Every sound was amplified — the slow turn of a page, the echo of footsteps on marble, the faint click of a watch. It was a place that demanded reverence, as if knowledge itself were sacred.
But deeper below, the beauty gave way to something colder. The basement archives traded oak for steel — narrow corridors lined with metal shelves, humming quietly under the strain of fluorescent light. The air grew heavier, the temperature colder, as though the knowledge down there required containment. It was a place built not just to preserve memory, but to hide it.
Chuka had been there before, but never alone. That afternoon, the corridors were empty, each flicker of the light echoing louder than the last. He had received an unsigned email from a departmental assistant claiming that a sealed collection related to West African excavations had been recently cataloged under Roman Global Foundation: Private Donation. Curiosity had brought him down; instinct told him he might regret it.
He followed the reference number until he reached a cabinet marked Restricted – Colonial Antiquities, 1908–1952. A red wax seal hung broken on its latch.
Inside were folders yellowed with age, photographs curled at the corners, and a series of typed reports stamped with both the British Museum insignia and a faint, modern logo — RGF.
His pulse quickened.
He laid one document flat beneath the lamp. It was a field report dated June 1934, describing the unearthing of Nok relics in northern Nigeria — relics noted for their "unusual resonance properties." The report mentioned energy fluctuations, metallic readings, and "possible ritual significance." The names of the archaeologists were crossed out in black ink.
At the bottom of the page, a handwritten note in faded blue ink caught his eye:
"Recovered fragment lost during transport. Believed to have been buried again near Jos region. Do not pursue."
Chuka froze. His discovery site. The same coordinates.
He sifted through the remaining pages — shipping manifests, correspondence between British officials and private collectors, and recent memos signed by executives from Roman Global Industries. The timelines overlapped perfectly with his excavation's funding.
A chill crept up his spine.
The company hadn't sponsored him for his brilliance. They had known exactly what he would find.
He sat back, the lamp throwing sharp shadows across his face. Memories of the relic's faint glow returned — the vibration beneath the earth, the whisper in the storm. Now the pieces began to fit together, and they frightened him.
Someone had been watching this discovery long before he was born.
He packed the documents carefully, slipping one photograph into his notebook: a grainy image of a terracotta figure identical to the one he had unearthed — except for a faint circular engraving on its chest.
As he turned to leave, the overhead lights flickered again. A low hum rolled through the archive — mechanical, or something deeper. For a moment, the air itself seemed to vibrate.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
Chuka looked back toward the cabinet. The broken wax seal was gone.