Chapter 10
1281 Words
Elena’s POV
The next morning felt too normal.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains, soft and steady, like nothing had shifted the night before. Michael was already awake, sitting at the small dining table with a stack of files open in front of him, flipping through printed copies from the Association’s records.
I watched him for a moment before speaking.
“Did you find anything new?”
He shook his head slightly, sliding a page aside. “Same gaps. Same missing years. It’s deliberate.”
Of course it was.
I poured myself a glass of water and leaned against the counter. My thoughts drifted briefly to the balcony. To the quiet nod. To the way Jameson hadn’t tried to dominate the moment. I hated that I noticed it.
I quietly set the glass down on the table and walked to the window instead. The courtyard looked completely ordinary in the morning light. Students crossed from one building to another, chatting without a care in the world. Some walked in small groups, their laughter carrying through the air. Others moved alone, hands tucked into jacket pockets, radios clipped to their belts or headphones resting over their ears.
Everything looked normal.
Michael’s voice cut through my thoughts.
“They’ve restricted access.”
I turned slightly. “To what?”
He lifted one of the papers in his hand. “The renovation records. The section we requested yesterday.”
That didn’t surprise me.
It confirmed something else.
Someone was paying attention.
Michael placed the paper back on the table.
“That means we stop requesting anything for now,” he said.
“Yes,” I replied. “We lay low.”
He nodded once. No argument.
I stepped away from the window and walked toward my room. If they were watching for patterns, then we’d give them none.
Normal. Predictable. Boring.
I pulled open my closet and stared at the rows of clothes. Nothing sharp. Nothing that drew attention.
I chose a simple high-waisted pair of dark jeans and a loose cream blouse, buttoned just enough to look neat but not styled. Over it, I slipped on a light brown jacket. Practical. Forgettable.
I tied my hair back halfway, letting the rest fall naturally. Minimal effort. No statement.
When I stepped back into the living room, Michael had changed as well. Faded denim, a neutral shirt, jacket thrown over one shoulder.
“You look harmless,” he commented.
“That’s the idea.”
He gave a faint nod of approval.
We gathered only what we needed, notebooks, pens, nothing excessive. No extra files. No highlighted documents.
Just students heading to class.
As we stepped outside, the air carried the usual hum of campus life. A group of students passed us, laughing about something trivial. A radio played faintly from an open window nearby.
Two houses down, I didn’t look.
Even though I was aware of the balcony.
We walked at an unhurried pace, not too fast, not too slow. No whispered conversations. No tension in our posture.
From a distance, we were just two cousins heading to lectures.
Invisible.
Exactly how it needed to be.
But even as we blended into the crowd, I couldn’t ignore the quiet awareness at the back of my mind.
Laying low didn’t mean no one was watching.
It just meant we were watching back.
Jameson’s POV
The whistle blew sharp across the field.
“Again!”
Coach’s voice carried over the late afternoon air as we reset at the line. Pads shifted. Cleats dug into grass. The smell of sweat and dirt hung thick under the fading sun.
Second semester.
Still proving.
I adjusted my gloves and glanced across the formation. I wasn’t the oldest on the team. Wasn’t the loudest either. But I learned fast. Watched faster.
“Don’t overthink it,” Marcus muttered beside me, nudging my shoulder with his helmet. “Just run the route.”
“I am running the route.”
“Yeah,” he said with a grin, “but you’re thinking about it like it’s calculus.”
The ball snapped.
I cut left, feinted, then pivoted hard. The cornerback reacted half a second too late. The pass hit my hands clean.
Coach blew the whistle again.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” he barked. “Stop reading the whole damn field and just trust what you see!”
Marcus jogged up beside me, shaking his head. “See? Even Coach says you think too much.”
I shrugged, pulling off my helmet. “Someone has to.”
He laughed.
That was the thing about Marcus, easy energy. Loud in the locker room. First to clap someone on the back. He’d been here since freshman year. Knew everyone. Trusted everyone.
He didn’t notice gaps.
Practice dragged on until the sky turned a muted orange. By the time we headed toward the locker room, the field lights buzzed faintly overhead.
Marcus dropped onto the bench beside me, unlacing his cleats.
“You heading to that history club thing tonight?” he asked casually.
“Association,” I corrected.
He snorted. “Whatever. Same difference.”
I didn’t answer right away.
He leaned back, studying me. “You’re weird, you know that? Most guys transfer in and try to party their way into the roster. You’re out here digging through old files like you’re solving a crime.”
I gave him a look. “Maybe I am.”
He laughed like it was a joke.
It wasn’t.
The locker room emptied slowly. Voices faded. Showers shut off one by one. Marcus clapped my shoulder before heading out.
“Don’t stay up all night chasing ghosts,” he said.
The locker room had emptied, only the faint buzz of fluorescent lights remained overhead.
I wandered toward the display wall without thinking much about it, framed championships, faded newspaper clippings, black-and-white team photos from decades past.
An article dated 1956 caught my eye.
The headline celebrated a title win, but the smaller column to the side held something else.
“East Wing Undergoes Structural Reinforcement; Archival Materials Relocated.”
I stepped closer.
The language was clinical.
“Restricted sub-level access.”
“Administrative preservation protocols.”
“Controlled archival transfer.”
That wasn’t typical renovation language.
It sounded deliberate.
The earliest archival inconsistencies in the Association records began not long after that year.
Not dramatic gaps.
Just tightening.
I stepped back slowly.
Weeks earlier, while reviewing older Association membership logs for a paper, I’d come across a name that stayed with me.
Widders.
Late 1960s entry.
Active member.
Research designation listed under “Archival Review.”
Then abruptly:
“Status: resigned.”
No thesis attached. No listed publication. No alumni citation.
Which was unusual.
Most members left documentation behind.
This one didn’t.
It was obvious this individual left, but the reason wasn’t stated.
Which was strange.
Resignations were usually documented. Graduations archived. Even disciplinary removals carried footnotes.
This one didn’t.
Just a line.
Status: Resigned.
No explanation.
No follow-up.
No trace.
At the time, I’d dismissed it as incomplete filing.
Now, standing beneath a 1956 article referencing “restricted archival relocation,” it didn’t feel incomplete.
It felt… edited.
I knew this was valuable information, the kind that raised questions and got answers.
I also knew something else.
If I kept pulling at this thread by myself, I would eventually pull it too far.
And the Association didn’t strike me as an institution that appreciated solitary digging.
I needed help. There were only two people that came to mind.
Most members accepted what was handed to them.
Most didn’t look twice.
But they did.
I exhaled slowly.
Curiosity was dangerous.
But shared curiosity?
That was alignment.
- Writer
