Fossils of Memory

Chapter 10

The next morning, Rhiana felt different. Not better. Not rested. But more certain. The fear that had clung to her for weeks had transformed into something sharper—urgency. The threads connecting her to Monica, to Chris, to the box, were no longer coincidence. They were deliberate.

And they were tightening.

She walked to school with the box in her bag. She didn't know why—only that she needed to have it close.

Chris met her at the gate, as if he had been waiting. They didn't speak at first. Just walked, side by side, in a silence thick with tension and recognition.

During break, they found a spot under the bleachers behind the old gym, the place kids went to hide from teachers or skip class unnoticed. Rhiana pulled the box from her bag and placed it between them.

"I don't know what we're supposed to do with it," she said.

Chris stared at it. "I've seen it. In one of the dreams."

Rhiana's eyes snapped to his.

"In mine," he continued, "I'm holding it. But I'm not me. I'm someone older. Stronger. I think I was—" He stopped, searching for the right word. "—protecting it. Or trying to."

She opened the lid. Or tried to. It didn't move.

"I've tried everything," she said.

Chris leaned forward and placed his hand beside hers. Their fingers brushed, and for a moment—just a fraction of a second—the box shimmered.

Rhiana gasped. "Did you see that?"

Chris nodded slowly, his eyes wide. "It reacted to us."

They tried again—together. Her left hand on one side, his right on the other. Nothing dramatic. No clicks or flashes. But there was something. A hum under the surface. Like static building in the air.

"It needs both of us," she whispered. "Because it belongs to both of us."

Chris met her eyes, his voice barely audible. "What if we've done this before?"

That evening, Rhiana sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, flipping through her childhood sketchbooks. Pages of color, bursts of creativity—until, suddenly, the tone shifted. She found a page dated three years ago, when she was just thirteen.

It was a sketch of a girl standing in the woods.

A red dress. Wild eyes. Her hand buried in the dirt.

Rhiana didn't remember drawing it.

She flipped to the next page—another girl, curled on a bed, holding a box to her chest. Tears running down her cheeks. On the bedside table was a small object that Rhiana hadn't noticed before. A cross.

Her breath caught.

She had seen that cross before. It was in her dream—the first one. The one with the girl in the forest.

The girl who was digging. Searching.

And bleeding.

She dropped the sketchbook and stood, pacing the room. Her mind spun. Had these memories always been with her? Hidden in drawings, buried under her own disbelief?

A thought emerged.

What if she wasn't just remembering Monica?

What if she was Monica?

What if her soul had lived once before—and was bleeding back through cracks in the present?

She didn't want to believe it.

But the evidence was mounting.

And Monica wasn't done with her.

Not yet.

That night, she dreamed again.

The snow fell heavily. The sky was bruised and low. She stood in front of a grave.

This time, she could read the headstone.

Monica Claire
Beloved daughter. Stolen too soon.
1993

Rhiana touched the cold stone.

A voice spoke behind her.

"You were never supposed to remember."

She turned.

And saw a man.

Tall. Dressed in black. Face hidden in shadow.

But his voice was familiar. Like it had once meant something.

Like it had once said her name with love.

She opened her mouth to speak—

And woke up.

Heart racing. Sheets soaked. Fingers clenched into fists.

She sat upright and looked at the box on her desk.

They were right.

This wasn't just memory.

This was unfinished history.

And someone didn't want her to uncover the rest.