The storm began with a single, low rumble—not loud, not threatening, just the kind of distant growl that sounded more like a giant rolling over in its sleep. It echoed through the old archive building, slipping between columns of dust and forgotten paper.
Mira paused with her hand on the light switch, listening. Another rumble. Another sleepy shake of the sky.
Perfect, she thought. Just what I need: thunderstorms and thousand-year-old manuscripts.
She flicked the switch. The lights blinked awake one by one, reluctant little suns that illuminated her private kingdom: rows upon rows of shelves, towering stacks of boxes, fragile maps pinned behind glass, a huge oak table worn smooth by decades of careful fingertips.
Most people hated the smell in here—old parchment, leather, a faint metallic trace of ink long dried—but Mira inhaled it like comfort. Like home.
She hung her coat on the hook beside the door and ran her fingers through her messy dark hair, trying to tame it. No point. The storm humidity had choices of its own.
There were no windows in the main archive, only the distant sound of thunder rolling like a whisper from the outside world. She preferred it that way. The outside world was messy and unpredictable; this place, with its quiet, ancient order, made sense. Everything had a place. Everything could be cataloged, dusted, cared for.
Everything except the human heart.
She frowned at the thought. Sleep deprivation was making her poetic again. She had stayed up until 4 a.m. reading a stack of letters from a 17th-century nobleman who couldn't seem to decide whether he wanted to marry his sweetheart or run off to become a poet in Florence. She empathized.
On her desk lay the list of items she needed to process today—mostly routine, nothing exciting—but at the bottom was a new note written by her supervisor in his impatient, scrawly handwriting:
BOX 12E — Found in Sub-Basement 3. Unknown origin. Catalogue ASAP.
Sub-Basement 3. Great. That level was practically a fossil itself. Anything found down there was usually brittle, water-damaged, or contaminated with mold.
Mira sighed and reached for her gloves. "All right, let's see what mystery we're dealing with."
She found Box 12E exactly where the courier had abandoned it: on the floor beside her desk, unlabeled except for a fading tag that read 12E-112 in ink so smudged it looked like it had been drowned.
She knelt and carefully lifted the lid. Inside were several layers of protective cloth, neatly folded—and beneath them, a bundle of letters tied with a ribbon so pale it was almost colorless.
She frowned. Odd. That ribbon looked… new. Not centuries old. Not even decades old.
She picked up the bundle. The paper felt strange, delicate but not brittle. As if it belonged to no particular time at all.
Something fluttered loose.
A single envelope slid out and landed on the floor at her knee.
Mira stared at it.
Her breath thinned.
Her hands went cold.
Because the name on the envelope—written in an elegant, looping hand—was hers.
Mira Ellion.
She blinked hard, once, then again. The name didn't disappear. The ink didn't smudge.
Her stomach knotted.
Slowly, she reached for the envelope. The paper was soft under her fingertips, warmed from the heat of her gloves. There was no postage mark, no return address.
Only her name.
And just beneath it…
A date.
November 19th, 2025.
Today.
Her heart gave a sharp, painful thud.
"Okay," she whispered into the empty archive, forcing a shaky laugh. "Okay, this is a prank."
It had to be. Someone had planted it. Someone had—
But who? Nobody else had clearance for Box 12E. And the sub-basement wasn't somewhere people casually wandered into. She had been the only one on shift since morning.
The thunder murmured again.
Mira swallowed.
Maybe she shouldn't open it. Maybe she should turn it over to her supervisor. Maybe she should burn it. Shred it. Lock it in the back room and pretend it never existed.
But curiosity had always been her strongest—and most reckless—habit.
Her fingers slipped under the flap.
She hesitated for one final breath. Then she opened it.
A single sheet of paper unfolded into her hands.
Handwriting filled the page, the same looping, elegant style as the envelope. Strangely familiar. Too familiar.
Her eyes dropped to the first line.
And stopped.
If you are reading this, it means you survived the morning. I wasn't sure you would.
Her pulse skittered.
She read on.
There isn't much time. You will want to ignore this letter, but that would be a mistake. Today is the day everything starts, the day the cycle breaks—if you are brave enough to face it.
Her breath stuttered.
You'll feel it soon. The sense of wrongness. The feeling that the world is repeating something you can't quite remember. It will scare you. It should. Because by tonight, someone will try to kill you.
A chill ran from the base of her spine all the way up to the crown of her head.
Kill her?
Who?
Why?
The air in the archive seemed to thicken, tightening around her throat. She forced herself to keep reading.
Do not go home. Do not trust the man who arrives asking for directions. Do not answer the phone after 8:17 p.m. And whatever you do, do NOT go near the river.
Her fingers trembled.
This was insane. Completely, utterly insane. Some twisted joke. A sick prank.
She almost stopped reading there. Almost.
But the next paragraph pulled her gaze like gravity.
You're wondering who I am. The truth is hard to accept, but you already know. Look at the handwriting. Listen to the way the words settle in your chest. You can feel it, can't you?
A horrible, creeping recognition blossomed in her gut.
She didn't want to look at the handwriting again.
She did anyway.
And the breath left her lungs.
It was familiar. Not entirely identical, but close enough—close enough to look like hers if she tried to write in a different style.
No. No, that was impossible.
It had to be copied. Or forged. Or—
She read the next line.
This is not your first life, Mira.
Her entire body went cold.
You have died before. Many times. And each time, the world resets around you. You forget everything. You start again. This letter is the only thing that crosses the boundary.
Her throat closed.
Forget everything? Reset? Die?
This was madness.
She forced herself to keep going.
The cycle resets every time you fail to change the ending. Every time you trust the wrong person. Every time you hesitate instead of running. I know this because I have written to you before. Because I AM you before. And you are me after.
Her vision blurred.
No. This couldn't be real.
And yet—
And yet—
Something quiet and cold inside her whispered: What if?
She blinked until the words came back into focus.
The cycle is breaking. The enemy is growing desperate. Tonight, they will try again. You must survive long enough to meet the stranger who will warn you. He will give you the key. You will not trust him, but you must. He is the only person who remembers every cycle, even when we do not.
A stranger. A warning. A key.
This was either the most intricately planned hoax ever conceived…
or something infinitely more terrifying.
She read the final lines.
Do not run. Do not hide. Do not throw this letter away. You will try, like you always do, but I am begging you—keep it. Read it again before midnight. You will understand more by then. You always do.
I'm sorry for what you're about to learn. But you deserve the truth, even if it destroys us.
—Mira
Her knees nearly gave out.
She sat back on her heels, the letter trembling in her hands.
A faint hiss of air escaped her lungs as she whispered, "This isn't real."
She stared at the words until they blurred.
Thunder cracked sharply overhead—much louder now. The lights flickered. The fluorescent bulbs buzzed angrily, then stabilized.
Her heart didn't.
She folded the letter with slow, mechanical precision and slid it back into the envelope, hands shaking so badly the paper crinkled.
Her mind raced.
Someone was messing with her.
Someone had to be.
But who? And how would anyone know enough details about her personal handwriting, her life, her habits? Enough to craft something so hauntingly accurate?
A soft thump echoed from the far end of the archive.
Mira froze.
Another thump.
Like footsteps.
Her breath hitched.
The archive was supposed to be empty. Nobody else had clearance today. She was alone.
"Mira?"
The voice drifted from between the shelves.
Deep. Male. Not loud, but oddly calm.
"Are you here?"
Her pulse spiked.
The letter's warning flashed through her mind like lightning:
Do not trust the man who arrives asking for directions.
Her skin prickled.
The footsteps came closer. Slow. Measured.
Her voice trembled. "Who's there?"
Silence.
Then—
A faint shuffle. A soft inhale.
And the man spoke again, closer this time.
"I'm looking for the archivist."
Mira backed toward her desk, heart hammering against her ribs.
"I'm her," she managed. "State your name."
Another pause.
When he answered, his voice had shifted—gentler, careful.
"My name won't mean anything to you yet."
She stiffened.
Yet?
Her fingers brushed the edge of the desk, seeking anything she could use as a weapon. A heavy book. A metal ruler. Anything.
The stranger stepped into view.
Tall. Dark coat. Rain-soaked hair clinging to his forehead. Eyes that seemed too tired for someone his age.
His gaze swept the archive, then landed on her with a flicker of recognition so deep it twisted her stomach.
"You found the letter," he said quietly.
Not a question.
A knowing.
Her blood turned to ice.
He took one step closer—slow, cautious, as if approaching a frightened animal.
"There's something you need to understand," he said. "You're in danger."
She clutched the edge of the desk. "Stay back."
He stopped instantly, palms up.
"I'm not here to hurt you."
Her voice cracked. "The letter said someone would come. Someone who remembers."
His expression tightened. "Yes."
"Is it you?" she whispered.
A long, heavy silence.
Then he nodded.
"I remember everything, Mira," he said softly. "All the lives you've lived. All the ways you've died."
Her heart stopped.
He took a slow breath. "And tonight… I'm here to stop it from happening again."
Lightning exploded outside. The lights flickered violently.
And for the first time, Mira felt something she had never felt in the archive before:
Fear so old and deep it felt like déjà vu.