If I were a healthier person, I'd take a walk.
Or sit outside.
Or breathe air that hasn't been filtered through a dehumidifier older than I am.
Instead, I'm sitting on my stool, staring at the shoebox of mayhem like it's about to file a complaint against me, trying very hard not to think about the fact that apparently reality is now subjective.
I rest my elbows on the table and rub the heel of my hand over my eyes until little sparks appear.
The vessel. The breathing silver. The floating ribbon. The mirror that refuses to show me. The treasure.
All of it sitting innocently in the box while the clipboard beside it has given up on anything except the barest nouns.
Object. Cloth. Stone.
My brain feels like it's been pulled through a key ring.
The door bangs open.
Monica returns the way a tornado does: sudden, loud, and with a barn full of opinions waiting to be unleashed.
She kicks the door closed behind her with her heel and throws her hands up. "I swear to God, Evie, that man has a talent for rearranging my entire schedule with one click of his pen. Do you know how many calls I had to pretend not to see just now?"
I blink out of my trance and track her movement across the room. "I thought you liked Dr. Leighton."
"I like him the way you like baby alligators. Adorable until they open their mouths and ruin your favorite shoes."
She leans against the table, dramatically exhausted, then her eyes sharpen as they land on my face.
"You good?"
I nod, maybe too fast. "As well as can be expected."
Monica narrows her eyes. "You look like someone who's either having a spiritual awakening or actively dissociating."
"I'm… cataloging the experience in my mind," I say.
"Uh-huh. And I'm the Queen of Norway."
"Norway has a queen," I mutter. "Her name is Sonja."
Her gaze flicks to the box, completely oblivious to the shimmering, floating, gently pulsating nonsense inside. She sees the cracked teacup, the tarnished spoon, the ribbon, the old mirror. The originals. The lies.
Lucky her.
"I also have news," she says in a tone that is rarely followed by anything I enjoy. "The assistant gave me the weirdest attitude. You saw him, right? Little twerp with the tablet?"
I choke on air.
Little twerp?
Evander Mercer—who radiated gravitational pull, who looked like someone took a Norse god and convinced him to try bespoke tailoring—is a "little twerp"?
"Uh, he didn't look… little," I say carefully.
Monica groans as she crosses to the supply closet, like the memory offends her. "You can't be trusted with things like this right now."
"…Like what?"
"Like a twerp," she says, yanking the closet open. "Tall, sure, but he had the personality of a lukewarm breadstick. And that haircut? Absolutely not. If you ever date someone with middle-management energy again, I'm staging an intervention."
My brain misfires. "I'm sorry—what?"
She pulls a new pen out and jabs it at me. "Pocket-protector-coded. The kind of guy who files his taxes in January because he's bored. Someone who says 'um, actually' about cloud formations."
Pocket protector? Middle management?
We obviously did not see the same man.
"I think you're being a little dramatic," I say, still trying to catch up.
She stops and stares at me. "Evie. Sweetheart. The man looked like he gets bronchitis twice a year."
"What? He was—he was huge. And—healthy."
Her mouth drops open. "Huge? In what universe?"
"The one we were standing in," I say, heat creeping up my neck. "He was tall. And very…" I make a vague gesture that is supposed to mean broad shoulders and unfair bone structure. "Put together."
"Put together?" Her voice jumps an octave. "He looked like he irons his socks. Evie, he was wearing a clearance-rack button-up from Kohl's."
I blink. "He was wearing a tailored jacket."
"He was wearing something that screamed 'my mom bought this for a job interview.'"
We stare at each other, mutually horrified, like we've just watched two endings of the same movie.
The ring gives a warm, self-satisfied little pulse, which feels rude under the circumstances.
Monica shakes her head like she's rebooting. "Anyway. I gave him our numbers."
My soul leaves my body. "You what?"
"He asked for the best contact numbers for the dinner details." She shrugs. "And since you were busy gawking at his boss—"
"I wasn't gawking," I say. I have no idea where I was looking, actually. I was just trying not to stare. Somewhere in the vicinity of the floor. Or my hands. Or oblivion. I couldn't tell you.
"You were absolutely gawking," she says. "At Dr. Leighton, which is fine, he's adorable. But this assistant guy? Evie. I'm telling you. He looks like the human version of a fax machine."
My face heats. "Well… I didn't see a fax machine."
"Yes, because you're freshly single and emotionally compromised." She sighs. "Your taste is unreliable, I'm sorry. Those are just facts."
I open my mouth, close it, and decide this is not the moment to unpack all of that while a box of semi-sentient artifacts exist three feet away from me.
She pats my shoulder. "It's fine. If you see him again, ignore him. Unless you're into awkward energy. In which case, go nuts."
She leaves me with a sympathetic squeeze and a muttered threat about what she'll do if Harold asks her about toner orders, then disappears back into the corridor.
The door shuts.
Silence creeps in again, familiar and heavy.
The ring cools against my skin, then settles into a low, expectant hum.
I sit there for a long moment, nerves scraped raw, like someone took sandpaper to the inside of my chest.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I don't look.
I already know who it is.
I already know what it says.
More apologies, more explanations, more it didn't mean anythings.
The ring warms faintly, like it has an opinion about my ex now, too.
"Join the club," I mutter.
I stand, intending to move—stretch, breathe, do something—but my legs feel weirdly floaty, like they're only half-registered. Today has been… I don't even have a word that fits. Chaotic? Magical? Terrifying? Taxing? Like someone jammed three years of therapy into a 36-hour window?
All of the above.
Under normal circumstances, I'd be planning my retreat by now. Go home. Let Ash talk at me until my spine dissolved. Pretend everything was fine. Pretend I didn't feel smaller than my own life.
The ring pulses once.
Something in my chest tightens in return. Not fear. Not quite.
More like the smallest piece of courage, testing its weight.
No.
I'm not going "home."
I check the time.
10:42 AM.
Right. Because apparently my descent into magical nonsense has taken… thirty-seven minutes.
I sit back down, crack my knuckles, and try to pretend this is still just another normal day of cataloging, not an accidental crash course in reality renovation.
"One more try," I tell the box. "Then I'm taking my sanity and what's left of my wrist and going to find something that doesn't disrespect my time."
I start with Item 2 this time, because surely something as basic as material: unknown, spiral, cold shouldn't cause problems.
I write:
Item 2: metal unknown. Spiral shape. Cold to the—
The words dissolve immediately.
Ink vanishes from the page mid-stroke, leaving only the number behind.
Nerves pinch behind my eyes. "Really?"
I try again, stripping the description down like I'm negotiating with an unreasonable editor.
Item 2: dark spiral object.
Gone.
Item 2: spiral.
Gone.
Item 2: object.
The only survivor.
"This day just keeps getting longer."
Hours pass like that.
Every time I think I've found a phrase the ring will tolerate, it wipes half the sentence in silent judgment. Sometimes it leaves one word. Sometimes it deletes the entire line and leaves the paper looking raw and thin.
Noon rolls around. The museum's ancient HVAC system clicks into its afternoon death rattle. Between the metallic wheeze in the vents and the steady erasure of my work, I'm ready to dunk my head in the nearest utility sink.
I get up, stretch my legs, refill my water, ignore texts from Ash and Rowan, and come back to my desk.
Item 3, the silver-breathing-brooch-thing, refuses every descriptor that references movement or life.
Item 4, the floating ribbon, deletes anything that mentions hovering or defying gravity.
Item 5, the mirror, erases "does not reflect the viewer" but keeps "polished stone," which feels borderline petty.
Item 6, the treasure box is apparently not a treasure box but could, in fact, be called a box, only.
I've filled—and emptied—the page so many times that the paper looks bruised.
Somewhere in the building, a school group shrieks. Someone drops something heavy in the lobby. A phone rings twice, then stops. Monica opens the door twice to "just check in," and both times I manage to look only slightly less feral than I feel.
At 4:30 PM, I finally give up and write:
Item 1: vessel.
Item 2: object.
Item 3: silver.
Item 4: cloth.
Item 5: polished stone.
Item 6: box.
The ring responds with the emotional equivalent of a shrug.
Fine. We're all lowering our standards today.
By 5:00 PM, my cheek is resting on the table and my hand aches from writing. My brain aches from thinking around whatever rules the ring is enforcing. And the donation feels like it is watching me, which is not a sensation I plan to acknowledge without medication.
At exactly 5:02 PM, Monica reappears—as if summoned by my fraying mental stability—expression wiped clean of earlier annoyance.
"You done?" she asks.
"Emotionally? No. Professionally? Also no."
"Perfect," she says. "Clock out. If I stay in this building any longer, Harold will ask me how to work the printer again and I'll end up with a documentary of my own. Archivist Snaps, Uses Bic Pen As Weapon."
We gather our bags. My fingers throb as I shove my notebook inside. The ring sits warm and steady, like it's quietly pleased with the destruction it's caused.
The sun is already sliding toward the horizon when we walk out.
A whole day has passed since yesterday's disaster.
Somehow I survived it.
Somehow I'm still standing.
I let Monica's chatter wrap around me in the lobby—small complaints, gossip about the education department, a story about her mother's doctor's office—and I'm weirdly grateful. Her voice is like bubble wrap around something fragile.
We push through the museum's glass doors into the cool evening air.
Monica slows at the edge of the parking lot. "You headed home?"
Home.
The word lands heavy.
"No," I say before I can second-guess it. "I think I need… something."
"Something like what?" she asks, already suspicious in the way of someone who has seen me make impulsive decisions involving bookstore clearance tables.
I glance down at my clothes—wrinkled, dusty, sweat-creased from a long day of arguing with extradimensional inventory. "I don't know. A change."
Her expression softens in that big-sister way she uses when she's about to meddle on my behalf. "You want company?"
I shake my head. "I think I need to be alone for a bit," I say. The truth feels clean as it leaves my mouth. The ring stays neutral. "But I'll see you tonight."
She nods. "All right. But text me if you need anything. See you later, my little cryptid."
We wave goodbye, and I watch her walk to her car and drive away.
The engine comes to life with a low rumble.
I sit with the sound for a moment.
Something shifts in the quiet. A sense of transition that settles into the space with me, as if the car has become a small, sealed-off doorway between old habits and whatever happens next.
It's oddly grounding.
Maybe even appropriate for the day I've had.
For a moment, a quiet, stubborn part of me expects I'll just pull out of the spot and go home.
Back to the routine I spent years building.
Back to the apartment where my slippers wait by the bed.
Back to the kitchen table with the one wobbly leg.
Back to the version of myself who never paused long enough to question anything.
There's a pull there. Familiar, practiced.
The kind of pull that usually wins.
Go home.
Slip back into the pattern.
Make everything smaller so it's easier to carry.
Pretend the image isn't shattered.
But the thought doesn't land the way it used to.
It feels like picking up a coat that should still fit and realizing, suddenly, that your shoulders have changed.
My grip tightens on the wheel.
Maybe that's why the next thought clicks into place so cleanly.
If I'm going to this dinner…
If I'm going to sit in a room with donors and assistants and people who seem like they were born knowing where the good silver goes…
If I'm starting whatever comes after Ash and Rowan—
I'm not doing it looking like I just lost a fight with a file cabinet. Which has happened.
I pull out of the lot and head straight for the nearest department store.
I don't think.
I don't plan.
I just drive.
The ring warms once as if pleased.
"Yeah," I breathe. "I'm doing something for me."
For the first time in a very long time.
The department store smells like perfume and overworked air conditioning. Bright lights, too-loud music, and mannequins slinking around every corner.
I gravitate toward the dress section like I've done this before, even though I haven't. Not like this.
Normally, I'd grab something black and shapeless and call it a day.
Today, my hand brushes a soft black dress that actually has a waist and my heart does a weird little lurch.
"Bold," I mumble.
I check the price. Not cheap. Not catastrophic.
I stack a few options over my arm—safe, safer, and the dress that might require a spine—and head toward the fitting rooms.
Twenty minutes later, I'm staring at myself wearing the bold one.
It fits.
Not perfectly. Not movie-magic perfectly. But well enough that my brain shuts up for a second. The fabric soft, the neckline flattering without feeling like a costume. My body looks like it belongs to someone who lives in it on purpose.
My throat tightens.
"Okay," I whisper. "We're doing this."
I buy the dress along with a pair of heels that I would normally never, since they would make me taller than Ash… but I don't need to worry about that anymore.
As I'm about to escape, a woman at the cosmetics counter catches my eye. She's in her thirties, warm smile, braids pulled back into a bun, eyeliner sharp enough to cut a man in half. Her name tag says: LENA.
"You look like you're on a mission," she says, not unkindly, as I pass by.
Under normal circumstances, I would smile, say oh, just a work thing and keep walking.
The word starts to form. "I'm—"
The ring squeezes around my finger. Not hard. Just enough to choke the lie off before it makes it past my teeth.
I swallow.
Lena tilts her head. "That bad, huh?"
Something in my chest cracks.
"I, uh…" I laugh, which comes out sounding way too close to a sob. "My fiancé and my best friend have been sleeping together behind my back, I have a dinner with my boss's boss in three hours, and I own exactly one lipstick from a pharmacy clearance bin."
Her eyes soften instantly. "Oh, honey."
And just like that, I am trauma-dumping on a complete stranger in the middle of the cosmetics floor.
Lena nods along, grimaces in all the right places, makes a noise of genuine disgust when I mention the timeline. When I run out of words, she plants both hands on the counter with the certainty of a general about to plan a campaign.
"Okay," she says. "Sit."
"I really don't want to be a hassle, I just—"
The ring warms but doesn't burn.
I shut my mouth.
Lena arches a brow. "Do you want to feel like yourself but less exhausted, or do you want to feel like you crawled out of a music video?"
"Option one," I say immediately. "God, definitely option one."
"Good," she says. "I like you already."
She cleans my face, moisturizes, works in efficient, gentle motions. We talk in little scraps—how long I've been at the archives, how long she's been doing makeup, the best and worst wedding parties she's seen. She steers away from Ash and Rowan unless I bring them up, which I appreciate.
By the time she's done, the person in the mirror looks like me but in an alternate reality that leaves more time for self care.
My skin looks even. My eyes look awake. My lips have color that looks vibrant instead of ghostly.
"Witchcraft," I whisper.
"Skincare," she corrects. "And good products. You don't owe him pretty, by the way."
"You're right. This is just for me—but also for not looking like a gremlin at a donor dinner."
"That," she says, "you absolutely deserve."
She slips a tiny rollerball of floral perfume into my bag when I pay for the basics. "Breakup emergency kit," she says when I protest. "Don't argue with me."
The ring warms like it agrees with her.
Small miracles.
Traffic is miserable, but for once I don't mind.
I'm feeling a strange mix of anticipation and excitement, and the drive is giving me room to decipher these new emotions. Usually it's just dread and a desire to go home as quickly as possible, since I had someone there waiting.
I suppose I still do, but… no version of me finds that acceptable anymore.
The address Evander texted—a string of information with no flourish, no emoji, no explanation—takes me to a neighborhood I've only ever seen while doomscrolling Zillow during depressive episodes.
Wide, tree-lined streets.
Low stone walls.
Lawns that are more "landscape architecture" than grass.
The houses here don't loom so much as they… exist with confidence. Big, old, and comfortable with it. Columns, shutters, soft exterior lighting—less haunted manor, more this has been in the family since the 1920s and no one has ever worried about the electric bill.
When I turn onto the right street, my car immediately develops impostor syndrome.
"I don't belong here," I tell the steering wheel.
The wheel does not disagree.
The house I'm looking for sits near the end of the block, recessed behind a short wrought-iron fence and a sweep of clean, pale stone walkway. Warm light spills from tall windows framed by dark shutters. There are pots of something green and expensive-looking by the front steps, and the door is a deep, glossy wood that probably gets oiled more often than my car.
It looks old money, not spooky. The kind of house that has a drawer just for cloth napkin rings.
I pull over on the opposite curb so I'm not blocking the driveway. Park. Turn off the engine.
Then I just… sit.
My heart is doing calisthenics.
I double-check the address. Still correct. No follow-up text instructing me to use a side gate marked Mortals This Way.
He meant here.
I finally open the door and step out onto the quiet street. The air feels cooler here, like the neighborhood pays extra for better weather. I smooth my dress down with damp palms, lock the car, and make myself walk toward the gate before I can talk myself back into driving away.
"Okay," I whisper. "We can do this."
Lantern-style lights line the path up to the door, their glow soft and steady. Up close, the stonework is clean but a little worn at the edges in a way that says people actually live here, not just pose in the foyer for charity magazines.
The ring on my finger warms.
Not warning.
Not disapproval.
Something closer to anticipation.
I'm not sure if that's comforting or a very bad omen.