The Memory Touch

It was 2:17 in the morning. The rain had not stopped in Boston. Most of the Forensic Science Building was dark. Only one laboratory on the third floor was still lit. Ethan Cole had no idea how long he had been sitting there. Stacks of papers covered the desk. Several cardboard boxes sat nearby, already sorted and labeled. The coffee beside his computer had gone cold hours ago, leaving only a dark stain at the bottom of the cup. He rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. For the past few days, he had spent almost every night in the laboratory. Professor Daniel Whitmore's belongings had been delivered to the university two weeks earlier, and Ethan had been helping sort through them ever since. Whitmore was seventy-one, a senior professor in the university's forensic science department and Ethan's mentor. Two weeks ago, he had died at his home. There had been no obvious signs of injury. The preliminary conclusion was natural causes. As part of the university's arrangements, some of Whitmore's research materials, teaching records, and personal belongings had been transferred to the department for safekeeping. Ethan, one of his graduate students, had been asked to help catalog them. It was tedious work. And tonight, Ethan could feel his concentration slipping. He glanced at the corner of his computer screen. 2:17 AM. “One more box.” He said it quietly. His eyes settled on the cardboard box in front of him. A label had been stuck across the top. WHITMORE — PERSONAL BELONGINGS “Let's get this over with.” He opened the box. Nothing inside seemed unusual. A few old notebooks. A fountain pen. A pair of glasses with one broken arm. Several photographs. At the very bottom was a thick, dark-brown notebook. Ethan picked it up. He recognized it immediately. Whitmore used to carry it with him everywhere. The professor had a habit of writing almost anything in it—research ideas, lecture notes, dates, times, and abbreviations that often made sense only to him. Ethan opened to the first page. Whitmore's familiar handwriting stared back at him. One page. Then another. There were no complete entries. Most of the notes were brief. Dates. Times. Numbers. Abbreviations. A few names. Ethan turned the pages slowly. A photograph suddenly slipped from between them. It landed on the desk. Ethan bent down and picked it up. The moment his fingers touched the photograph— Everything disappeared. The rain. The laboratory. The glow of the computer screen. All of it was gone. … He was standing in an unfamiliar room. Rain tapped against the window. A young woman sat at a table. She was wearing a red sweater. Her hair was slightly damp, and a cup of coffee sat in front of her. Ethan instinctively looked at the clock on the wall. 8:17 PM. The woman seemed to sense something. She looked toward the door. It opened. A man stepped inside. His face was hidden in shadow, impossible to make out. The woman stared at him, unease settling across her face. “Who are you?” The man didn't answer. He simply looked at her. After a few seconds, he spoke quietly. “Claire…” The woman said nothing. The man kept looking at her. Then he said— “Weren't you supposed to be dead?” Ethan's eyes snapped open. He was still sitting in the laboratory. The rain was still falling outside. The computer screen was still glowing, casting a pale light across the desk. Ethan took several breaths, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. He didn't get up. He simply sat there until his breathing began to settle. After a while, he rubbed his eyes. They felt dry and sore. He looked at the corner of the computer screen again. 2:19 AM. “Fell asleep…” He said it under his breath. He had barely slept for days. It had probably just been a dream. A dream that had felt far too real. He didn't think about it any further. After shutting down the computer, he gathered his things, grabbed his coat, and left the laboratory. It was almost three in the morning when Ethan got back to his apartment. He didn't even shower. He dropped his coat over a chair and collapsed onto the bed. Sleep came quickly. But it wasn't restful. There was no complete story in the dream. Only fragments. Rain. A window. A cup of cold coffee. A red sweater. A woman sitting at a table. The image flickered. The same room. The woman looked up. The image disappeared again. Then it returned. This time, the room was darker. The rain outside was heavier. Someone was standing in the doorway. Ethan couldn't see his face. The woman looked at him. Her lips moved. But her voice sounded distant, as if coming from somewhere far away. “…” Ethan couldn't hear her. The scene changed again. A hallway. A closed door. Rain running down the glass. A clock on the wall. 8:17. Then— The woman suddenly appeared in front of him. Ethan tried to see her face. He couldn't. All he could hear was a voice. Soft. Distant. As though it were coming from somewhere deep inside his memory. Claire. Ethan frowned in his sleep. The name became clearer. Claire. Claire. Claire… The scene shifted again. The woman stood by the window. She turned around. The door opened. The same man walked inside. His face was still hidden. The woman looked at him. She seemed about to say something. But before she could— The man stepped toward her. His voice suddenly became perfectly clear. “Claire…” Ethan looked up. The man stared at the woman. “Weren't you supposed to be dead?” Ethan jolted upright. It was still dark outside. The room was dim. His heart was pounding. He sat there, breathing hard. For a long moment, he didn't move. Then he slowly raised a hand and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. He looked toward the window. Rain was still falling. He didn't know why he had dreamed about this. He didn't know why the name had stayed with him. Claire. Ethan leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes. But the name was still there. Clear as ever. Claire.