ARIELLE

CHAPTER 4

It was positioned in the oldest section of the main library building and accessible through a door that looked like it hadn’t been renovated since forever. The staircase down was narrow and slightly spooky, but once you reached the basement, it was like stepping into another world.

The space was vast—larger than should have been possible given the way the building looked from the outside. It comprised floor-length shelves organized according to some ancient system. There were paintings stored vertically, some photographs ordered by age, and documents from centuries ago preserved in wooden boxes. The lighting was dim, and the temperature was cool.

It definitely passed all the mysterious vibe checks.

“This is insane,” I whispered, because the space demanded silence in a way.

“I know, right?” Star whispered back, catching the drift. “I read about it in the campus tour materials. They have, like, actual historical documents down here.”

Of course, she went through the materials.

She then leaned closer and continued in a more hushed tone, “And apparently, there’s a whole section that’s, like, restricted? Nobody really knows why.”

I gave her an incredulous stare, and she shrugged with a look that said, ‘Don’t hate the reporter; hate the news source.’

I chuckled slightly in response.

While we were still talking, a librarian approached us, an older woman with reading glasses on a rope and an expression that said she didn’t get interrupted often.

“Can I help you?” she asked, not rudely, but firmly, making it clear that she was very protective of the space.

“I’m just exploring,” I told her. “It’s my first time here.”

She softened slightly at that. “The first time is always the best; you get to discover how much you didn’t know you wanted to know about the world.”

She then gestured toward the shelves. “Feel free to look around, but make sure to be careful with the materials. There are gloves available if you need to handle anything old.”

I thanked her and immersed myself in a section dedicated to art history for the next hour, going through brochures from old galleries, show records, and verification papers for artworks. I absorbed information like someone who had been thirsty for years.

Star had long since wandered off to investigate something that she found interesting.

During my studying, I noticed a wall labeled ’Restricted Access’ cordoned off with a velvet rope. Behind it were boxes labeled with what looked like years—”1975-1985,” “1985-1995,” and so on. I tried not to stare at it too much, but it was impossible not to wonder why it was restricted.

Guess Star had a reliable source after all.

“Curious about the archives?” the librarian asked when she found me standing near the cordoned section. I wasn’t even conscious of how close I had gotten to it.

“A little,” I admitted. “What’s back there?”

“Historical documents connected to an old research program,” she said, and something in her tone suggested she wasn’t supposed to say that much. “It’s nothing that should particularly interest a freshman art history student.”

“I don’t exactly know what would interest me yet,” I said honestly. “I’m still figuring that out.”

She just smiled. “That’s the right approach. It’s better to be curious than be convinced you know everything.”

By the time Star and I left the basement, it was already late afternoon, and we were both running on pure wonder and the kind of adrenaline that came from discovering beautiful things.

“That place is like a secret library,” Star said as we climbed the stairs back to the main level. “A secret library full of mysteries. You look like you want to spend every free moment down there.”

“Of course,” I admitted with a small smile. And she wasn’t wrong at all.

Later that evening, while sitting in the dining hall with Star and a group drawn to her magnetic charm, I found myself participating in conversation. I didn’t contribute much, but I listened.

And somewhere between the terrible dining hall pasta and Star’s animated descriptions of her orientation group, there was a change.

“You’re getting more comfortable,” Star observed as we walked back to the dorm. “You laughed at Matthew’s joke about the dining hall pizza, which was new. The Arielle I’ve come to know would have just internally noted it as amusing but never let her face show it.”

“I’m still observing,” I told her. “It wouldn’t hurt to try participating.”

“That’s called being human, my friend,” Star said proudly. “You’re welcome to the club; there’s a membership card and everything.”

The week passed in a blur, and by the end of my first art history seminar on Friday, I got my application essay back with an A and a note from Dr. Ashton that read:

This essay is exceptionally thoughtful. You have a refined understanding of how context shapes meaning. Make sure to see me during office hours. I have a proposal that might interest you.



I read it approximately seventeen times.