Fossils of Memory

Chapter 7

The hallway buzzed with voices and locker doors slamming shut, but Rhiana walked through it as if underwater. Her books pressed tightly to her chest, her gaze fixed on the floor tiles. Her mind wasn't here. Not really. Her body moved through the familiar rhythm of school—math, lunch, chemistry—but her thoughts drifted constantly, like fog refusing to lift.

Ever since the study session at Angela's, everything felt unreal. The name Monica still echoed in her ears. The cold on her skin from that vision hadn't faded. And worst of all, she couldn't shake the feeling that something inside her had cracked open.

"Hey," Angela said, walking beside her with a bounce in her step, oblivious. "Guess what? Chris is coming to the bonfire this weekend."

Rhiana blinked at her. "What?"

Angela laughed. "You're seriously not listening anymore. Are you okay? You've been completely spaced out all week."

Rhiana gave a tight-lipped smile. "Yeah. Sorry. Just tired."

"You need to come to the bonfire. Everyone's going. Even Charlie said he's skipping his video game marathon for it."

Rhiana didn't respond. Her mind had already wandered again.

She hadn't told anyone about the new painting. The one she woke up to find on her easel two nights ago—one she didn't remember starting. It showed the inside of a wooden house, old and weather-worn, with yellow wallpaper and a fireplace crumbling into ash. In the center was a staircase—and standing on it, a young girl in a nightgown, staring at the viewer with wide, pleading eyes.

The girl was holding a silver box.

Rhiana hadn't even touched a brush that night.

And yet, there it was.

English class offered no escape. Mr. Hansen stood at the front of the room discussing character development, but Rhiana's gaze wandered to the window. Outside, the sky was pale gray and heavy with snow. Across the field, past the fence, stood a line of bare trees—and for a moment, she saw her.

The woman in red.

Standing still.

Facing her.

Rhiana's heart lurched. She blinked and the figure was gone.

Was it another hallucination? Or had she really seen her?

The bell rang and her classmates moved around her in a blur. Chris passed her desk and paused. "You okay?"

She nodded, quickly gathering her things. "Fine."

"Rhiana," he said gently, "you're shaking."

She looked down. Her hands were trembling. Her fingers gripped her notebook so tightly it might tear.

"I didn't sleep last night," she muttered, and pushed past him.

By the time she got home, her body ached with exhaustion, but her mind buzzed. The sky outside had darkened, snow beginning to fall in slow spirals. Her parents were out for dinner—she was alone. The silence in the house was heavy.

She climbed the stairs and went straight to her room.

And there, on her bed, lay a folded piece of paper.

Her heart thudded. She hadn't left anything there.

With shaking hands, she picked it up.

The handwriting wasn't hers.

Find the box before they do.

The paper dropped from her fingers.

Someone had been in her room.

She searched every corner, every drawer, every shadow. Nothing. The windows were locked. The door had been locked when she left. But the note was real. She held it in her hand.

She collapsed onto the floor, back against her bed, and buried her face in her knees. Something was happening to her. Something too big to explain. She wasn't dreaming these things anymore. They were coming into her life—bleeding into her reality.

The box. The one she saw in the painting. The one the girl held.

It wasn't just symbolic. It was real.

She didn't know what it meant. Not yet.

But she knew, for the first time, that she had to find it.

Because something inside her whispered:
Your time is running out.