The Memory Touch

Chapter 8 : 217

After leaving the café, Ethan returned to his apartment.

He sat down at his desk and picked up Whitmore’s notebook again.

He started from the beginning and went through it page by page.

Dates.

Times.

Case numbers.

Names.

Numbers that seemed to have no explanation.

He slowly worked his way toward the back.

Then he stopped.

There was almost nothing on this page.

No date.

No name.

Just three numbers circled in ink.

217.

Ethan frowned.

He stared at the number for a long time.

Why had Whitmore singled it out?

He checked the pages before and after it.

Nothing.

No explanation.

No other notes.

Just the same number.

217.

Ethan leaned back in his chair.

Why had Whitmore marked this number so deliberately? There had to be a reason.

His eyes drifted toward the cardboard box beside the desk.

WHITMORE — PERSONAL EFFECTS

He put the notebook down and opened the box again.

This time, he searched through it carefully.

Folders.

Old photographs.

Letters.

Receipts.

Old slips of paper that probably hadn't been useful in years.

He took them out one by one and set them aside.

Then he checked each one carefully.

Suddenly, something caught his eye.

Locker: 217.

Location: South Station.

It was a storage locker rental receipt.

Ethan looked at the date.

Then he froze.

November 2009.

Why would Whitmore rent a locker all the way out at South Station?

Claire had disappeared in October 2009.

One month later, Professor Whitmore had rented Locker 217.

Could the two things be connected?

Ethan's brow furrowed.

Then—

Everything suddenly went black.

There was no warning.

Ethan didn't even have time to react.

The next thing he heard was rain.

Heavy rain.

Cold water poured from the edge of a roof.

He was standing in a narrow city alley.

Streetlights blurred through the rain, their glow spreading across the wet pavement.

Ethan stood there.

Or rather—

He could only watch.

He looked toward the mouth of the alley.

Through the glass window of a shop on the corner, an old television was playing the news.

The picture was blurry.

A news anchor was speaking.

“November 6, 2009, in downtown Boston…”

Ethan froze.

November 6, 2009.

He knew he was inside that strange memory again.

But this time, something was different.

He wasn't standing outside the scene.

He couldn't move.

His vision seemed fixed in place.

Then he saw a reflection in the shop window.

A man standing in the rain.

Ethan stared at the reflection.

The next second, he froze.

That wasn't his face.

It was Whitmore.

He was seeing through Professor Whitmore's eyes.

Seeing the world from exactly where Whitmore was standing.

Ethan tried to speak.

Nothing came out.

He tried to move.

His body wouldn't respond.

All he could do was watch.

Like a spectator trapped inside Whitmore's body.

Then—

A woman appeared at the other end of the alley.

She was walking quickly toward him.

Ethan recognized her immediately.

Claire Morgan.

Her hair was soaked from the rain, and water covered her coat.

She stopped in front of Whitmore.

Whitmore looked at her.

“You shouldn't be here.”

Claire didn't answer.

She reached into her coat and pulled out a piece of paper and a small key.

Then she handed both to Whitmore.

He took them.

He looked down.

It was the same receipt Ethan had just found.

Locker 217.

Whitmore looked up.

“What is this?”

Claire looked at him.

“What you asked for is in there.”

Whitmore frowned.

“You're sure?”

Claire didn't explain.

She glanced toward the street.

“I have to go.”

Whitmore looked at her.

“Be careful.”

His voice was low.

“They're still looking for you.”

Claire nodded once.

“I know.”

Then she suddenly turned around.

She looked toward the street behind her.

She said nothing.

She simply watched for several seconds, as if making sure no one had followed her.

Whitmore followed her gaze.

Cars passed along the street.

There was no one else in sight.

He turned back to Claire.

“If they find you, they'll kill you.”

Claire fell silent.

Rain ran down her face.

She lowered her head and stood there for several seconds.

Then she slowly looked up at Whitmore.

“At their end…”

She paused.

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“I’m already dead.”

Ethan wanted to say something.

But he still couldn't make a sound.

The scene began to blur.

The rain grew more distant.

Claire's figure slowly faded away.

Then—

Everything went dark.

Ethan jolted awake.

He shot upright in his chair, his chest heaving.

He was breathing hard, as if he'd just run for his life.

The apartment was quiet.

Only the clock on the wall continued to tick.

Ethan looked down at his hand.

He was still gripping the receipt tightly.

The paper was creased where his fingers had squeezed it.

He stared at it for a few seconds.

Then he whispered,

“Not again…”

This time, he didn't wonder whether it had been a dream.

It had felt too real.

The cold rain against his skin.

The lights in the alley.

The television behind the glass.

And Claire.

Especially what she had said at the end.

“At their end… I’m already dead.”

Ethan quickly got to his feet.

He opened the box again and started searching for the key.

He went through everything a second time.

But no matter how carefully he searched, he couldn't find it.

Ethan finally stopped.

He took a breath and forced himself to calm down.

Then he carried the receipt back to his desk, opened his notebook, and started writing.

South Station.

Locker 217.

Key.

Claire Morgan.

Someone is looking for her.

He paused.

Then he wrote the date underneath.

November 6, 2009.

Ethan stared at the numbers.

The scene he'd just witnessed kept replaying in his mind.

If that wasn't a hallucination—

If what he'd seen was really a memory left behind by Whitmore—

Then the question had changed.

Claire had disappeared in October 2009.

But one month later—

she was still alive, and it seemed that someone was looking for her.

And she had gone to Whitmore.

Ethan tightened his grip on the pen.

He wrote:

What did she give Whitmore?

After a moment, he added another question.

Why leave it at South Station?

Ethan leaned back in his chair.

South Station wasn't exactly close.

If it was just an ordinary object, why would Claire go all the way there?

More importantly—

Why did Claire give it to Whitmore? What was the connection between them?

And where was the key to the locker?

Ethan looked at the notes spread across his desk.

For the first time, he felt like he had reached the edge of something much bigger.

Whitmore had clearly known something back then.

But he had never written down the answer.

Or maybe—

he had deliberately left it unwritten.

Ethan looked down at the receipt, still crumpled in his hand.

217.

What exactly was hidden inside that locker?

He didn't know.

But he knew one thing now.

He had to go to South Station.