Fossils of Memory

Chapter 8

She didn't sleep that night. Not because she didn't try—she did. She curled under her blanket, turned off the light, closed her eyes—but her body refused to surrender. Her heartbeat was too loud. Her thoughts moved in sharp circles, clawing at her from the inside.

The note wouldn't leave her mind.

Find the box before they do.

Who were "they"?

Who else could possibly be involved in this?

At 3:07 a.m., she gave up. The silence in the house was oppressive, and even the hum of the heater sounded like static in her ears. She wrapped herself in a sweatshirt and paced the room. Then, as if pulled by something unseen, she walked over to the painting—the one with the girl holding the silver box.

Rhiana sat on the floor and stared at it.

The box had intricate patterns on the sides. A circle carved into the top. Vines etched into the base. Her hands moved unconsciously, tracing the shape in the air. She felt like she knew it. As if she had held it before.

Then something clicked in her brain.

The old storage closet in the attic.

She hadn't been up there in years—not since she was a child. But something told her to go now.

She tiptoed out of her room, careful not to wake the house. The staircase creaked softly under her feet as she climbed to the attic. The door was stiff, and it took all her strength to push it open.

Dust filled the air. Boxes were stacked in crooked piles. Cobwebs clung to the corners.

She stepped inside, holding her breath.

Her flashlight beam swept across old toys, broken furniture, and forgotten Christmas decorations. Nothing unusual.

Until she saw it.

A small wooden trunk—low to the ground, with faded metal edges and a broken latch. She knelt in front of it. Her fingers hovered above the lid, hesitating.

She opened it.

Inside, buried beneath a pile of yellowed newspaper, was a box.

Not silver. Not ornate. But small. Heavy. Wrapped in red cloth.

Her pulse pounded. She lifted it out with shaking hands.

She unwrapped it carefully, layer by layer, and when the final cloth fell away, she stared.

It was the same box from her dreams.

Almost identical to the one in the painting.

She turned it over in her hands. It didn't have a lock, but it refused to open. Her fingers tried every edge, every groove. Nothing budged.

Something buzzed behind her—soft, but electric.

She turned.

No one was there.

But the room didn't feel empty.

It felt watched.

The next morning, Rhiana sat in her room, the box resting on her desk. It still hadn't opened. No hinges. No keyhole. Just silence.

She skipped school. She couldn't pretend anymore.

Instead, she researched. Spent hours online, typing in every description she could think of: ancient box, carved circle, red cloth, locked without key. Most results were junk. Mythology. Folklore. Some articles mentioned "memory vessels"—boxes used in rituals to trap emotional energy or protect fragments of identity.

One passage made her stop.

"It is believed that in rare cases, when a soul is reincarnated but unfinished business remains, objects may carry remnants of their previous life. These vessels are not always symbolic—they can act as keys, anchors, or triggers."

Triggers.

Her hands went cold.

Was that what this was?

Had this box been waiting for her?

She pulled out her journal and flipped through the sketches. One stood out—a drawing she didn't remember creating. A girl in a red dress, standing on a dock. Behind her, water. In her hands: the box.

It wasn't Rhiana.

It wasn't a self-portrait.

It was her.

Monica.

And somehow, the story was starting all over again.