The archive smelled like dust, lemon furniture polish, and parchment that had witnessed too many secrets.
Lucian stood before the narrow door that Alice had gestured toward, his hand hesitating on the misaligned handle. The moment he turned the knob, he felt the shift—the air inside was much older and heavier, thick with the weight of forbidden stories.
Vera sat behind a narrow desk stacked with bundles of parchment. Not the official town records—those were neat and bloodless in the registry hall. These pages carried grief like smoke, memory like incense.
She didn't ask who he was. She just said, "Close the door, then. If you're here, I assume Alice trusts you."
Lucian nodded and obeyed, noting how the simple act felt like crossing a threshold into conspiracy.
