That night, the city felt different.
The air tasted older. The lights flickered with a strange hesitation, as if deciding whether to stay on or surrender to whatever had crept beneath the skin of Durnhill.
Alexis parked the Charger outside a building that didn't appear on any map. An old library—long condemned, now hidden behind a chain-link fence and a row of hollow-eyed mannequins someone had thoughtfully arranged like sentries. One of them was wearing a police uniform.
"This is the place?" Amelia asked, stepping out into the mist.
Alexis nodded. "If we're chasing witnesses—whatever that means—we need information. And if there's one person who keeps records on things people pretend don't exist…"
Amelia adjusted her coat. "The Archivist."
Alexis smirked. "Bingo."
They passed through the fence. The mannequins didn't move, but Amelia still felt watched. The library door opened on its own, groaning like a wounded animal.
Inside, the scent was mold, ink, and dusted ash.
Shelves curved upward like ribs, filled with books that pulsed faintly under the flickering chandeliers. The place was warm but not comforting. Too warm. Like breath on the back of your neck.
Then came the voice.
"You shouldn't be here."
A man emerged from the shadows, tall, skeletal, dressed in a moth-bitten coat and silver-rimmed spectacles that reflected too much. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and his eyes were mismatched—one human, one like cracked obsidian.
"You brought a memory into my domain," he said, his voice dry as old paper.
Amelia spoke first. "We need your records on the Spiral Murders."
The Archivist tilted his head. "They're not called that."
Alexis raised a brow. "Oh?"
"They're called the Echo Carvings."
Amelia stepped closer. "What does that mean?"
"It means what you think it means—memories made visible. Emotions etched into skin. Deaths that are not ends, but transitions."
He gestured to a side room. "Come. But understand—once you learn the truth, forgetting becomes impossible."
They followed him into the archive.
Thousands of drawers lined the walls. Each was labeled not with names or dates, but with feelings: Despair, Obsession, Guilt, Revelation, Madness.
He opened the drawer marked Recognition and withdrew a single envelope.
Inside: a photo.
A young woman—barefoot, standing in a burned room, a spiral chalked behind her. Her eyes too wide. Her hair singed.
Amelia stared at it.
"That's… me."
Alexis leaned in. "How is that possible?"
The Archivist looked at her. "Because the first victim of the Spiral was never found. Only marked. Only remembered."
Amelia's voice was hollow. "I survived a fire when I was eight. My records said it was accidental. But I always knew…"
"You were chosen," the Archivist whispered. "Because you could remember what others forgot. You were marked long before you were a detective."
Alexis rubbed her temples. "Okay, this is officially a cosmic horror show now."
"Not horror," the Archivist said. "A reckoning."
Outside, thunder cracked—except there were no clouds.
And across the floor of the archive, a spiral had appeared in ash.
Amelia stepped toward it.
"Don't," the Archivist warned. "Not unless you're ready to see what was taken."
Amelia looked at Alexis. Alexis, for once, didn't joke.
"Go," she said softly. "I've got your back."
Amelia stepped into the spiral.
The air bent inward. The walls melted away.
And she remembered everything.