The photograph in her pocket felt warm, like something that should be protected from the rain. Mara rode the tram home, keeping it folded between the pages of a notebook. She didn't want to look at it in public, afraid of the strange feeling that came when a familiar face from someone else's summer stared back at her. The city of Litus sped by her window neon lights, construction sites, and a mural of clasped hands with the caption "We Remember One Another." Mara tried to keep her work and her personal feelings separate, but they wouldn't stay apart.
The next morning, she sat at her bench and opened the conservatory's intake system. She watched the summer's data organize itself into neat columns. Her draft report was waiting: olfactory anchor added, lullaby cadence adjusted, rain cue included, subjective residue noted, recommend a cooling period. Each explanation had helped her in the past, but today they felt like both armor and an eraser. She saved the file as "Final" but kept a copy in a private folder she labeled with shorthand that no auditor would understand: PERSONAL NOTES.
The PERSONAL NOTES folder was small and messy, exactly what Mara had promised herself she wouldn't let happen. It was stored on an encrypted drive, and she never printed anything from it. Inside were straightforward notes: Lullaby phrase: sleepy tide, keep it light. Forearm bruise… crescent. Photo found, community aid box 17, possible Lenka. Leads: volunteer roster 2019, relief drive Aug 12, contact: R. Hargreeves. She had started the folder before anyone accused restorers of crossing boundaries, much like someone might start a secret diary before realizing they had secrets to keep. It wasn't exactly confession; it was more like recording her inner thoughts.
She pulled out the photo and laid it beside her computer. The woman in the picture had her scarf wrapped tightly against the wind, holding a paper cup with her hands, while a banner waved in the background. Someone had scribbled a possible name on the back, Lenka? and a date that looked like it could be in August. The picture was grainy, not clear enough for certainty, but enough to give a direction.
A soft chime sounded on her municipal terminal, announcing an incoming message. It was a calendar reminder: Outreach demo prep, Friday morning. She opened it to find a note from the director's office, polite but urgent: Please make sure all demonstrated procedures include provenance logging and counseling referrals. Choose two conservators to present a live stabilization. The signature was neat and final: Ana Qureshi.
Mara closed the message, feeling the photograph like a heartbeat beneath her palm. The demonstration was both an opportunity and a risk she had been thinking about since receiving the notification. If she presented, she could showcase her work in the way she wished the world would see it. If she declined, someone else, someone less thorough, might take her place and leave gaps that could be filled with accusations. For a moment, she thought about stepping back and letting others speak, but then she pictured Ana's face when the cameras rolled and the city's numbers that could determine the program's future. She felt a sense of responsibility weighing on her.
She made two decisions at once. First, she would treat the photograph as a question rather than proof; she wouldn't publish it now. Second, she opened the outreach roster drawer and began matching names by hand, comparing the signatures with the old paper on the back of the photo. It was a slow, old-fashioned task that didn't fit the city's fast-paced style, but it felt satisfying to connect ink with a name and date.
At noon, Naveen stopped by with a paper cup and a look that suggested he had news that might not be good. "Jonah Vale called," he said without wasting time. The name hit her like a stone in water. Jonah was known for his tough headlines but also for his thoughtful long articles. He had often stirred up trouble during civic controversies, being the reporter who could push a city to make hard decisions.
"He wants to talk to a conservator," Naveen said. "Specifically, someone who's been through arbitrations. He mentioned he's writing a piece about restoration practices."
Mara's mouth went dry, not just because of the potential media exposure but also because of the risk to her work, her notes, and the private folder she kept secured. "Did he say which conservator?" she asked.
"No. He left a voicemail saying he was following leads about missing provenance tags and wanted some context." He looked at her, waiting for her response. "He asked if anyone could speak off the record."
Mara thought of the photograph, the cup in the woman's hands, and the lullaby she kept in her mind. She considered how Jonah's articles could make complicated topics understandable to the public, but also how people loved to see a clear villain. "Tell him I'll think about it," she finally said. "Only off the record, though. I don't want to be quoted."
Naveen shrugged, looking relieved by her indecision. "You sure? You could go public. You've got credibility."
"I have responsibilities," she replied. "And liabilities." She meant both equally.
After he left, she went back to the roster, tracking down the name Hargreeves she had noted on the back of the photograph. The Hargreeves group had organized small relief efforts in the summers two and three years ago. She dialed the number in the volunteer binder and held the phone to her ear like someone cautiously opening a door.
A woman answered, her voice warm from years of answering municipal calls. "Community Aid, Rosa speaking."
"Hi, I'm Mara Mendel from the Civic Conservatory. I'm doing some archival research for a restoration project. I was wondering if you remember a temporary volunteer, Lenka, maybe, who helped with relief efforts around August, two or three years ago?"
There was a brief pause while the woman searched her memory. "Lenka? Oh, yes. She used that name sometimes. Came through during that storm year. She was short-term, moving between sites. We had a table where she'd hand out tea. Why?"
Mara's breath caught. The name matched the photo like a key in a lock but also brought up new questions. "I'm trying to confirm provenance for a restored stream," she said, keeping her voice steady. "If you have any records or photos, could you help me narrow down the dates?"
"Send me an email," Rosa replied. "We still have some boxes in storage. I'll look. She was…quiet. Didn't give a last name. Maybe Lenka, maybe Lena. People used the name as a comfort sometimes. You seem to care, aren't you with the Exchange? People have questions."
Mara's thumb hovered over the console before she confirmed the email address. "Yes," she said. "I'm a conservator." It felt oddly like declaring a belief.
When she hung up, she felt the lullaby shifting in her mind, no longer just a personal memory but now a lead she could follow. The city's records had been blank, the photograph had been a whisper, and the volunteer had become a voice on the phone. The pieces were small and still uncertain, but they were starting to form a trail.
She cautiously sent an email to Rosa asking for any dated photographs from August three years ago, and then, on a whim, she opened her PERSONAL NOTES file and added a line she hadn't allowed herself to say out loud: Possible provenance anchor found, Lenka, Community Aid, Aug storm. Follow up with Jonah? No. Follow up with Ana? Yes, but carefully.
There was a rush of footsteps at the conservatory's door. A courier had arrived with a new batch of intake packets and a stamped envelope from the director's office requesting names of conservators who could demonstrate proper logging procedures. Mara pushed her chair back and tucked the photograph into its paper sleeve, the grain pressing like a fingerprint.
Outside, Litus continued to shape itself into a community by design. Inside the conservatory, a conservator stepped into the gravity of investigation, old papers, volunteer names, a journalist knocking at the door, and felt the weight of her work transform into responsibility. The lullaby, which had once been just a background noise, now felt like a clock ticking a careful, necessary rhythm: listen, log, follow.