Fossils of Memory

Chapter 14

That night, the dreams returned—but they were different.

They no longer floated like fragmented visions. They moved with purpose. With pain.

Rhiana stood in the hallway of a house she didn't recognize—dimly lit, old wallpaper peeling along the edges. The wooden floor creaked under her bare feet. Somewhere deeper inside, a baby was crying. A man's voice shouted something muffled, urgent.

And then—silence.

She opened a door and found herself in a bedroom. Monica stood at the far end, her face pale, eyes swollen. She was holding the locket. She looked up at Rhiana—but it wasn't the shocked stare of someone seeing a stranger.

It was the recognition of someone seeing herself.

Rhiana stepped closer. "Who hurt you?"

Monica didn't answer. She simply opened her mouth to speak—and instead of words, blood spilled down her chin.

Rhiana screamed.

And woke up in the dark.

Sweat drenched her skin. Her hands trembled violently. But what gripped her wasn't just fear.

It was rage.

Someone had stolen Monica's voice. Her future. Her child.

And now Rhiana carried that injustice like a second heartbeat.

She threw off the blanket, sat at her desk, and opened her journal. Her pen flew across the pages—not sketches this time, but words. A story she was no longer willing to let history forget. Monica's story. Her life. Her death. Her silence.

It was time to turn whispers into testimony.

The next morning, Rhiana asked her mother about the past.

"Did anyone ever talk about a girl named Monica Claire?" she asked over breakfast.

Her mother looked up from her tea, surprised. "Monica Claire?"

"From Avina. Around 1993."

Her mother blinked. "That name... yes. I remember hearing something. There was a case. A murder, I think. I was in college back then. People whispered about it for weeks. I think she went to St. Ronald's. Why are you asking?"

Rhiana hesitated. "We're working on a project about unsolved cases."

Her mother's expression clouded. "Monica Claire," she repeated slowly. "I remember she was dating the son of someone important. There were rumors it was the headmaster's family. Then she died. Some said it was suicide, others... well, others weren't so kind."

"Did they catch anyone?"

"No. It just disappeared. Like people stopped asking questions."

That was it.

Confirmation.

Rhiana's pulse raced as she left for school.

They had buried her memory along with her body.

But Rhiana was going to unearth both.

During lunch, she pulled Chris aside.

"I need to talk to someone who was there. Who remembers."

"You mean... like one of the teachers?"

Rhiana nodded. "Someone who was here in 1993. Who might know what happened to Monica."

Chris thought for a moment. "Ms. Herrin. The librarian. She's been here forever."

They found her in the back of the school library, where sunlight filtered through dusty glass and silence sat comfortably between old books.

"Ms. Herrin," Rhiana began, "do you remember a student named Monica Claire?"

The librarian's hand paused on the cart of returns.

For a moment, she said nothing. Then: "That's a name I haven't heard in decades."

Rhiana glanced at Chris, then back at her. "She was murdered, wasn't she?"

Ms. Herrin exhaled slowly and motioned for them to sit.

"She was brilliant. Wild. Wrote poetry that could make you cry. Monica had a fire in her that scared the school. She didn't fit into their idea of quiet girls with clean shoes and safe futures."

"What happened to her?" Chris asked.

The librarian looked over her shoulder before answering. "She fell in love with the wrong boy. Martin Granger. The headmaster's son."

Rhiana's stomach dropped.

"So it's true," she whispered.

"More than you know," Ms. Herrin said. "They were inseparable. Until the headmaster found out. Monica was pregnant, or at least that's what people said. Then she vanished for three days. When they found her in the woods, the story changed. They said she had gone mad. That Martin had betrayed her."

Rhiana swallowed hard. "Did he?"

"I don't believe so," the librarian said, her eyes suddenly glassy. "That boy loved her. I think he tried to protect her. But someone else... someone powerful... made sure the story ended before it could reach the truth."

Ms. Herrin leaned closer. "That family ruled this school for years. You be careful, Rhiana. Digging into the past sounds noble—but people buried it for a reason."

Chris spoke softly. "We're not afraid."

"You should be," the librarian said. "Because Monica was."

Later, in the quiet of her room, Rhiana stared at the photo of Clara in the locket. The child who may never have been born. The promise never fulfilled.

She thought of Monica's voice in the dream.

Blood on her lips.

Pain in her silence.

And Rhiana knew then that her fight wasn't just to uncover a mystery.

It was to give Monica something she never had.

A chance to speak.