Fossils of Memory

Chapter 11

The next morning, Rhiana couldn't stop thinking about the grave.

She remembered every detail of the dream with chilling clarity—the slope of the cemetery hill, the iron gate creaking behind her, the frost clinging to dead grass. But most of all, she remembered the inscription.

Monica Claire.
Stolen too soon.
1993.

That year. The same as Rhiana's birth. The same month.

She paced her room in tight circles. It was impossible. It didn't make sense. But neither did anything else that had been happening to her. The lines between memory and invention, dream and reality, had dissolved.

She opened her closet and pulled out the box again. It was cold in her hands, heavier than before. And though she didn't know how, she sensed it had something inside it now. As if the dreams had deposited a truth inside it. As if her belief had begun to wake it up.

She sat down at her desk, placed the box in front of her, and turned on her laptop.

She needed to find Monica Claire.

If she had been real—if she had truly lived and died in 1993—then there had to be a record. A news article. A death notice. Something.

It didn't take long.

Her fingers typed with purpose: Monica Claire + obituary + 1993 + Avina.

And there it was.

Her blood ran cold.

"Teenage Girl Found Dead in Woods – Police Investigating Possible Homicide"
The article was dated August 6th, 1993. The victim: Monica Claire, 17 years old. Found near the northern edge of Avina Forest. Body partially buried. A suspect was questioned but never charged. No motive discovered. Case unsolved.

Rhiana's vision blurred. Her hands were numb.

She was born two weeks later.

It couldn't be a coincidence.

She scrolled further. There was a photo—grainy and faded. A girl with long dark hair, intense eyes, and the same crooked smile that Rhiana had seen in the mirror her whole life.

It was like looking at a forgotten version of herself.

She leaned back in her chair, her breathing shallow. Her heart wasn't just pounding—it was remembering.

This wasn't reincarnation the way movies made it out to be. This was something deeper. Rawer. Monica hadn't just been reborn into Rhiana.

She had been waiting.

She printed the article, folded it carefully, and tucked it into her journal next to the sketches. Then she walked to school with the box in her backpack again, her steps heavy, her mind spiraling. The truth was so much bigger than she was ready for.

Chris was already in the courtyard, waiting under the rusted clock tower. He saw her and stood up immediately.

"I found her," she said before he could speak. "She was real."

He looked at her, stunned. "Monica?"

Rhiana nodded. "She died in the woods. August 6th, 1993. Same town. Same month I was born. They found her body half-buried. No one was ever arrested."

Chris's face paled. "Oh my God..."

"She wasn't a dream. She wasn't made up. I'm carrying her. Somehow. And I think the box is connected to how she died."

Chris pulled her aside, away from the crowd, toward the far edge of the field near the maintenance sheds. "Have you opened it yet?"

"No. But I think we're getting closer."

He nodded, then reached into his jacket pocket. "I want to show you something."

Rhiana tensed as he handed her a photograph. It was worn, the edges frayed.

It showed two people—Monica and a boy. Standing close. Smiling. Her hand was on his chest. The boy looked almost exactly like Chris.

She looked up at him.

"That's not me," he said quickly. "But... it is."

The boy in the picture had a different name scribbled on the back: Martin. August 1992.

"I found it in my grandmother's attic," Chris continued. "In a box of her old things. She said it belonged to her cousin who died when she was young. But I've never seen this photo until last week."

Rhiana stared at the faces. Monica and Martin.

The girl from her dreams.

And the boy who called after her in the snow.

The same two souls now standing here—reborn, confused, hunted by a story they hadn't finished.

She handed the photo back. "We're them."

Chris looked at her, his voice barely audible. "And we have to finish what they couldn't."

That night, Rhiana set the box between them on her bedroom floor. Her parents were asleep. The lights were dimmed. A candle flickered on her desk, casting golden shadows across the walls.

She and Chris sat cross-legged, knees touching.

They both reached out at the same time, placing their hands on the box.

It was warm now.

Buzzing.

Alive.

Suddenly, a loud click echoed through the room.

The lid popped open.

They stared into it.

Inside was a small envelope, aged and brittle, sealed with red wax. And beneath it—a silver locket, tangled in a chain.

Rhiana reached in with trembling fingers and lifted the envelope.

There was only one word on the front, written in delicate handwriting:

"Forgive."

She looked at Chris.

"We just opened a door," he said softly.

"And I don't think we can close it."