he first thing I notice is the smell.
Old paper. Dust. Something faintly metallic that makes my stomach twist, like rain trapped in concrete.
The archive room is colder than the rest of the building, even though the heater hums softly above my head. Rows of gray filing cabinets stretch across the narrow space like coffins stacked upright. Each one holds lives that ended badly—or never found justice at all.
I stood on my toes, reaching for a box wedged too high on the shelf, my fingers brushing against old cardboard and dust.
Something shifted.
A file slipped free.
It hit the floor with a dull thud.
It hit the floor with a dull thud.
I flinched, instinctively crouching to pick it up. The cover was worn, the edges frayed as if it had been handled too many times—or not at all. I frowned. I didn't recognize it. The label didn't match the section I was working in, and the color code was wrong.
I glanced back at the shelf. No gap. No missing space.
It was as if the file had never belonged there in the first place.
Curiosity tugged at me. I told myself I'd just check the title before returning it.
I opened it.
And that was when everything began to feel… off
I shouldn't feel this way. I shouldn't be nervous just opening a folder. It's paperwork. Names, dates, typed statements no one reads anymore. That's it.
But my chest feels tight anyway.
I sit at the metal desk, pulling my cardigan tighter around my arms. My fingers tremble slightly as I open the folder labeled
CASE NO. 4173
STATUS: CLOSED
CAUSE: UNDETERMINED
Inside is a photo of the victim. Young, dark hair pulled back hastily, eyes wide, frozen in surprise. Not fear exactly. Confusion. Like she didn't understand what was happening until it was already too late.
I swallow. My throat feels dry, and my fingers itch to close the folder, to put it away like a dangerous object. But I can't. Something keeps pulling me forward.
"Focus," I whisper to myself.
I scan the first page:
Victim found deceased in apartment unit 3B.
No signs of forced entry.
No immediate suspect.
Witness statements follow. Time stamps. Police observations that feel rushed, incomplete. And then I see it.
A name that appears again and again. Like a shadow in the margins.
Evan Hale.
Questioned twice. Released. No charges filed.
My pen hovers above the file. Names carry weight. Even when you don't know them yet.
I flip the page.
Subject displayed unusual calm during questioning.
No alibi provided.
Claimed to have last seen the victim three days prior.
Three days.
Why would someone remember that?
I keep reading.
Relationship to victim: acquaintance.
Nature of relationship: unclear.
Unclear. That word appears often in these files. The polite version of we don't know—or worse, we didn't look hard enough.
I glance at the date. Seven years ago.
And I can't stop reading.
The café across the street is quiet in late afternoon. Sunlight slants through the windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air. I choose a table near the back, away from the few regulars nursing their coffees.
I set the file down, took a deep breath, and order tea. The smell of burnt coffee and stale pastries fills the air, but I barely notice it. My thoughts are tangled in the file: the victim, the suspect, the unanswered questions.
I shouldn't have brought it out of the archive. We're not allowed. My hands shake as I flip back to the suspect profile:
Evan Hale. Age at time of questioning: 20.
I don't know what I'm expecting. A clue? A photo? A sign screaming guilty or innocent? The report is maddeningly neutral. No emotional language. Just facts stripped bare.
I close my eyes for a moment and exhale slowly. My stomach twists. Why am I so invested in a case that ended seven years ago?
Because something doesn't feel right.
Because the name Evan Hale has a weight I can't explain.
"You're staring holes through that paper," a voice says.
I jump, nearly dropping my tea.
I look up to see a man standing beside my table. Tall. Dark hair damp at the edges, as if he's been caught in the drizzle outside. His eyes are sharp, observing. Calm. Too calm.
I force a smile. "Oh. I—I wasn't staring. Just… reading."
He gestures toward the empty chair across from me. "Do you mind?"
I shake my head. "Go ahead."
He sits. Up close, he's even more unsettling. Polished, neat, but something in his presence makes the air feel heavier, like I'm being measured in some subtle way.
He glances at my tablet. "Work?" he asks casually.
"Something like that," I mumble.
He nods. "You look like you're reading something unpleasant."
I don't know why but I want to tell him. To ask why this name keeps appearing, why my heart suddenly feels like it's racing. But I can't. I shake my head. "You could say that."
He studies me for a moment, like he's weighing my reactions. "I'm Evan," he says finally.
My stomach drops. The name from the file echoes in my mind.
"Evan," I repeat, hesitant.
He watches me carefully. "And you are?"
"Lena," I say, voice small.
He nods. "Nice to meet you, Lena."
The words feel ordinary, but my pulse feels anything but. Something about him—his stillness, the way he notices details without seeming to—makes my chest tighten.
We talk. About nothing really. The café, the music, the smell of burnt coffee. He listens more than he speaks. When he does, his words are measured, almost careful. I find myself leaning forward without realizing it.
Eventually, he glances at his watch. "I should go."
"Yeah," I say quickly, feeling both relief and
disappointment.
"Maybe I'll see you around," he says. Something in his tone suggests it isn't casual.
"Maybe," I reply.
He leaves first.
I sit back down, hands shaking slightly, staring at the empty space where he had been. My tea has gone cold, forgotten.
The hum of the café fades into background noise as my mind spins. Should I follow him? Should I… call the number in the file? The thought makes my stomach twist
The name from the file echoes in my head.
Evan Hale.
I tell myself it's a coincidence. Evan isn't exactly rare. I haven't even seen a photo of the suspect — the file didn't include one.
Still, my pulse won't slow.
I shake my head, trying to ground myself. No. I can't. Not here. Not now. I pack my things slowly, my hands trembling more than I want to admit, and leave the café. The streets are quieter now, the late afternoon sun low and harsh on the sidewalks. Every step feels heavier than the last.
By the time I reach my apartment, I feel both exhausted and restless. I pace for a moment, glancing at the phone on the counter with the open file. My pulse races. My thoughts dart between curiosity and fear. Maybe it's insane to even think about calling. But the need to know is overwhelming.
Finally, I pick up my phone. Fingers shaking, I type the number from the file.
A thousand little voices in my head scream: Don't. Don't call. You don't even know if it's real.
I count a shaky heartbeat. Then another.
Just as I'm about to press the button—my phone rings.
The screen lights up with the exact number I was about to dial.
I freeze. My chest pounds. My hand shakes.
I swipe to answer.
"Hello?" My voice is barely a whisper.
A pause. Then… a voice. Calm. Polite. Familiar.
"Lena," it says. "I was hoping it was you."
I press the phone to my ear like it will keep me grounded.
"How did you get this number?" I whisper.
Another pause. Longer this time. Almost deliberate.
"I told you," the voice says quietly. "I notice things."
Fear creeps up my spine like ice.
"Evan," I manage. My throat feels tight. "What do you want?"
A faint sigh. "I want you to stop reading that file."
Silence stretches. Heavy. Suffocating.
"You shouldn't be involved in this," he continues. "It didn't end well for the last girl who got too close."
I press the phone harder to my ear, trying to steady myself.
"Who are you?" I whisper.
"Someone who was blamed," he says. "And someone who doesn't want to lose you the same way."
The line goes dead.
I sit there trembling, tablet open in front of me. Hidden beneath layers of scanned notes, a line I hadn't noticed before catches my eye:
Victim had contacted legal assistance days before death.
Subject of concern: internal police misconduct.
I close the file. My hands shake. My mind spins.
Outside, footsteps pass the window. Slow. Measured. Unhurried.
And for the first time since I started this job, I understand one terrifying truth:
This case was never cold.
And I was never supposed to find it...