Chapter Two: It Came Back
1018 Words
Elena didn't sleep.
She lay awake on her bed, staring at the ceiling while rain tapped endlessly against the windows. Every few minutes, her eyes drifted toward the bedroom door.
Beyond it, resting quietly on the coffee table, was the newspaper.
The one that refused to stay in the trash.
At exactly 6:17 a.m., she gave up on sleep.
She padded into the living room, half expecting the newspaper to have disappeared.
It hadn't.
It lay exactly where she'd seen it the night before, perfectly folded, as if someone had placed it there with deliberate care.
Her apartment door was still locked.
The windows were shut from the inside.
No one could have entered.
She picked it up again.
The pages felt ordinary.
The ink didn't smear.
The paper smelled fresh, carrying the faint scent of a printing press.
Nothing about it suggested it had appeared by supernatural means.
"I've officially lost my mind," she muttered.
She walked to the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, and looked at herself in the mirror.
Dark circles already framed her eyes.
"You need coffee."
And maybe a psychiatrist.
---
The National Archives and Records Bureau occupied one of the oldest government buildings in the city.
Most people imagined dusty shelves and forgotten documents.
They weren't entirely wrong.
Elena loved it.
Every faded letter, every century-old newspaper, every handwritten record told a story someone had once considered important.
Preserving those stories was her job.
It was also her passion.
She greeted the security guard with a smile before entering the climate-controlled archive room.
"Morning, Miss Hart."
"Morning, Mr. Benson."
"Birthday girl still smiling?"
She laughed softly.
"Barely."
He chuckled as she walked away.
Normally, work helped her forget everything else.
Today, it did the opposite.
Every old newspaper she touched reminded her of the impossible one sitting inside her handbag.
---
Around ten o'clock, her supervisor approached carrying a storage file.
"Elena?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"We received a donation from the Hamilton family."
She pointed toward several sealed boxes.
"They contain newspapers dating back nearly fifty years. I want you to inspect and catalogue them."
Elena's face brightened despite herself.
"I'd love to."
"I knew you would."
For the next two hours, Elena lost herself in history.
She carefully unfolded brittle newspapers, documented publication dates, checked for damage, and recorded each edition into the archive system.
Everything followed rules.
Ink aged.
Paper yellowed.
Dates remained fixed.
History never changed.
That's how newspapers were supposed to work.
Which made the one in her bag impossible.
---
During lunch, she couldn't resist anymore.
She locked herself inside the staff research room and placed the mysterious newspaper on the table.
"If you're fake..."
She whispered to herself.
"...then prove it."
She reached for a magnifying glass.
The ink looked genuine.
The paper fibers matched modern newsprint.
Even the printing alignment was flawless.
No signs of forgery.
Frustrated, she compared it with today's newspaper.
Different fonts.
Different publishers.
Different layouts.
Everything about the mysterious newspaper suggested it belonged...
...to another time.
A knock startled her.
"Elena?"
It was Mr. Benson.
"Lunch is almost over."
"Coming!"
She quickly folded the newspaper and slipped it back into her bag.
---
The afternoon dragged.
She misfiled documents.
Forgot passwords she had used for years.
Even spilled coffee across her own notebook.
"Everything okay?"
Her colleague Mia frowned.
"You seem distracted."
"I didn't sleep well."
"Birthday celebrations?"
Elena forced a laugh.
"Something like that."
Mia accepted the answer without pressing further.
Elena was grateful.
She wasn't ready to tell anyone the truth.
Not when she barely believed it herself.
---
By five-thirty, she finally left work.
The city was alive with the usual rush-hour chaos.
Traffic crawled.
Street musicians filled the sidewalks with music.
The smell of roasted corn drifted through the evening air.
Everything felt wonderfully ordinary.
Exactly what she needed.
She stopped beside a public trash bin.
Her fingers tightened around the newspaper inside her bag.
"This is ridiculous."
She pulled it out.
Looked at it one last time.
Then tore the front page in half.
The ripping sound echoed loudly.
She tore it again.
And again.
Until dozens of small pieces fluttered into the trash.
"There."
A strange sense of relief washed over her.
"Let's see you come back from that."
She smiled to herself and walked away.
For the first time since yesterday...
She felt lighter.
---
An hour later, Elena unlocked her apartment.
She switched on the lights.
Dropped her handbag onto the sofa.
Walked into the kitchen.
Opened the refrigerator.
She hummed quietly while pouring herself a glass of orange juice.
Maybe everything really had been stress.
Maybe she'd overreacted.
She carried the glass toward the living room.
Then froze.
The newspaper rested neatly on the coffee table.
Perfect.
Untorn.
Not a single crease marked its pages.
Her glass slipped from her hand.
It shattered across the floor.
Orange juice spread across the tiles.
Elena didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Slowly...
She approached the table.
Her hands shook as she opened the newspaper.
It was exactly the same.
The future date.
Adrian Kingsley's obituary.
Her name.
Every word remained untouched.
As though she'd never torn it apart.
A sudden thought crossed her mind.
Not once had the newspaper harmed her.
Not once had it threatened her.
It simply...
Returned.
As if it refused to let her ignore it.
Her gaze drifted to the final page.
To the tiny signature she'd noticed the night before.
—The Last Editor
Who are you?
The question escaped her lips before she realized she'd spoken aloud.
Silence answered.
Then...
A faint rustling sound came from the newspaper.
Elena's heart lurched.
One page slowly lifted on its own.
Not because of the wind.
Every window was closed.
The page settled gently on a different article.
She stared at the headline.
It hadn't been there before.
Or perhaps...
She hadn't noticed it.
At the bottom of the page, in smaller print, were seven chilling words.
The first prediction arrives in three days.
Elena's blood ran cold.
Three days.
Whatever was coming...
The newspaper wanted her to be ready.
- Writer
