The alarm blared. Arin reached under the blankets, smacking objects until she hit the snooze button.
"Five more minutes won't kill anyone," she mumbled.
Her phone vibrated. Kenji's name flashed with three unread messages. She dismissed the notification and set the phone face-down.
Arin dressed in her curator uniform—blazer and slacks. The graduation photo caught her eye, the only picture she displayed. Her parents beamed while Kenji flashed his peace sign. She touched the frame, then withdrew her hand.
Her phone buzzed again. She silenced it without looking at the screen.
"Later," she said, dropping the phone into her bag.
The train car carried her toward the museum, packed tight with the morning commuters. Arin flipped through her presentation notes, mouthing key phrases under her breath.
"Morning, Arin!" The security guard waved as she scanned her badge. "Jordan's been asking about you. Three times already."
"That bad?"
"Just means he's paying attention. You've got this."
She tapped her badge against his desk in thanks and hurried toward the administration wing.
Jordan watched her from the head of the table as she pulled up her first slide. Six other department heads sat around the room, their attention fixed on the projected metrics.
"The Ming Dynasty exhibit exceeded expectations last quarter." Arin clicked to the next slide. "I have proposals to enhance visitor engagement through interactive elements."
She walked them through the data. Jordan tapped his pen against the table throughout.
Maya nodded from across the table. The technology director frowned.
"The budget—" he began.
"Is accounted for." Arin flipped to the financial projections. "Revenue increase within three months."
Jordan leaned back, fingertips pressed together. No one spoke.
"Go for it, Arin." He set his pen down.
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me. Just don't make me regret it."
Arin sank into her office chair afterward. Approval meant the real work was just beginning. Her fingers moved across the keyboard, organizing files for the project's next phase.
Her phone rang. Kenji again. She declined the call and turned back to her screen.
"Hey, boss!" Lola appeared in the doorway. "Ming pieces are heading to storage. Ready for layout planning?"
"Perfect timing. Gather everyone for a briefing."
The afternoon dissolved into blueprints, material samples, and vendor negotiations. Arin checked items off her list one by one until Takeshi appeared at her door with a coffee cup.
"You're a lifesaver." She accepted it. "How's the lighting installation?"
"On schedule. Technicians finish by Friday." He handed her the technical specs, then hesitated. "The motion sensors triggered again last night. Security found nothing."
"Third time this month."
"Maintenance thinks it's electromagnetic interference from the new equipment."
Arin made a note to review the footage.
The exhibition hall took shape over the following hours. Display cases stood in formation as Arin walked the space, measuring distances with practiced steps.
"Little more to the left," she directed the crew.
"Arin! ARIN!"
Akira's voice echoed through the hall. He rushed in clutching papers, glasses askew on his face.
"Watch the displays!" She stepped forward. "What's going on?"
He bent over, catching his breath. "The artifacts from Site 37. You need to see this."
"Breathe, Akira. They aren't going anywhere."
He spread papers across a display case. His finger traced spiral patterns across a photograph of stone tablets, markings unlike anything she had encountered in fifteen years of archaeology.
"We thought these were decorative. They're not." He produced another photograph showing bones that dwarfed the researchers standing beside them. "The skeletal structure defies classification. The density, the proportions—nothing in our records comes close."
Arin studied the images. "Where exactly was this found?"
"Site 37. Same location as the tablets." He pulled out a third photograph showing a stone roughly the size of a fist, its surface catching the camera flash in ways that seemed wrong. "The writing system is completely unknown."
"And this stone?"
Akira's voice dropped. "It changes color under different lighting conditions. The research team reported hearing it... hum."
"Hum."
"Low frequency. Barely audible. Three different people documented it independently."
Arin set the photograph down. "I want to examine it myself. Where is it stored?"
Akira's face fell. "That's why I came to find you. It's gone."
"Gone?"
"Between the evening inventory and morning check. The case was locked, sensors detected nothing." He swallowed. "I already told Dr. Yamada. He thinks I miscoded the entry, but I cataloged it myself. Triple-checked. Item SR-7291, Section R, shelf 7."
"Keep this between us for now. I'll look into it tonight."
Arin waited until the installation crew finished their shift. The museum quieted as staff departed for the day, footsteps fading down corridors until only the hum of climate control systems remained.
The storage corridor stretched before her, shelves rising toward the ceiling on both sides. Her tablet displayed the inventory database as she navigated to the search function.
She input the code SR-7291.
No matches found.
According to the system, the item had never existed.
Arin moved between the shelves, checking labels against her tablet. Ming vase in C-7. Bronze tools in D-3. Each item exactly where it should be.
Section R, shelf 7.
She stopped.
There, wedged between a ceramic vessel and an ancient mirror, sat an object that shouldn't exist according to their catalog. The stone from Akira's photograph, its surface shifting between deep blue and violet as she moved her head.
She raised her tablet to take a photo. The screen flickered once, twice, then went black. She pressed the power button. Nothing.
The stone hummed.
Arin stood frozen three meters away, her dead tablet clutched against her chest.
She should leave. She should turn around, walk back to her office, and file a report in the morning. Let the research team handle this with their protocols and protective equipment and carefully documented procedures.
Her feet carried her one step closer.
The stone's surface rippled between colors as she moved—deep blue bleeding into violet, then shifting toward something that might have been green if green could exist at the edge of darkness. The ceramic vessel beside it cast a normal shadow. The mirror reflected the fluorescent lights overhead exactly as it should.
The stone pulsed once, a flare of deep crimson that faded back to violet. The humming shifted pitch, and for a moment she could have sworn it formed syllables, words in a language that had never been spoken by human tongues.
She was standing directly in front of the shelf now. She didn't remember crossing the remaining distance.
Her hand rose from her side.
She watched it move as if it belonged to someone else, fingers extending toward the stone's shifting surface.
'Don't,' she told herself. 'Call security. Call anyone. Just don't—'
"Just a quick examination," she whispered, and the words came out steady despite the trembling in her chest. "Just to see what it feels like."
Her fingers touched the surface.
Energy surged through her body, hot and electric, flooding her veins like liquid fire. The room stretched and compressed around her, colors bleeding into each other, the shelves warping into impossible angles. She tried to pull her hand away. Her muscles refused to respond.
Images crashed through her mind—forests of impossible height, creatures that walked on too many legs, cities built from materials that didn't exist, civilizations rising and falling in the span of heartbeats. A voice spoke in a language she had never heard, and yet the meaning carved itself directly into her understanding.
You have been chosen.
The cycle begins again.
"Help—" The word barely escaped her lips before her legs gave out.
The word barely escaped before she collapsed. The floor pressed against her cheek as warmth spread through her body. Darkness enveloped her, accompanied by the stone's fading hum.
Behind her, the artifact crumbled to dust, its purpose fulfilled.
The security camera blinked, watching over an empty room.