Morning came whether Aurelia was ready for it or not.
The alarm rang at exactly six-thirty, sharp and merciless, slicing through the lingering remnants of blood-soaked marble and silence. Aurelia jolted upright, her breathing ragged, fingers curling into the sheets as if grounding herself required physical proof.
Her room was unchanged. Warm lamplight filtered through half-drawn curtains. The faint scent of her lavender detergent lingered in the air. No blood. No marble floors. No faceless man standing ankle-deep in carnage.
Just her.
She pressed a hand to her chest, waiting for her heartbeat to slow. It didn't—at least not immediately.
It was a dream, she told herself firmly. It had to be.
Still, the cold lingered.
Aurelia swung her legs off the bed and froze.
The tile sat on her vanity, exactly where she had left it. Black. Smooth. Quiet. Its silver veins caught the early light like something alive, glinting faintly as if aware of her attention.
"How anticlimactic," she sighed, running a hand through her hair.
Her throat went dry.
She didn't touch it.
Not this time.
---
The office was louder than usual.
Or maybe she was just less capable of tuning it out.
"Good morning, boss!" someone chirped as Aurelia walked in, coffeeless and already exhausted.
She nodded in return, nearly walking straight past her own office door before catching herself. A soft frown creased her brow as she turned back, unlocking it with a touch more force than necessary.
Inside, her desk was immaculate—as always. Papers aligned. Tablet charged. Field notes neatly stacked. Everything exactly as she had left it.
Except her mind felt… off.
She stared at her computer screen for a full ten seconds before realizing it wasn't on.
With a quiet sigh, Aurelia pressed the power button.
"Long night?"
She flinched at the sudden break in silence.
Victor leaned against the doorframe, coffee in hand, looking far too awake for someone who claimed to have stayed up watching documentaries until three a.m.
"You're early," she said, more accusation than observation.
"You're late," he countered lightly, taking a sip. "Also—you forgot your coffee. Again."
"I did not forget," Aurelia replied automatically, shrugging out of her coat. "I consciously chose not to drink it."
Victor raised an eyebrow. "At six-thirty in the morning?"
She paused. "…That does sound suspicious when you put it that way."
He grinned. "You okay? You look like you lost a fight with your own thoughts."
Aurelia opened her mouth to answer—and stopped.
Blood. Marble. A man she couldn't see.
"I'm fine," she said finally—too quickly. "Just didn't sleep well."
Victor studied her for a second longer, then shrugged. "If you start talking to artifacts again, I'm calling it a day."
"I do not talk to artifacts."
"You apologized to a ceramic shard yesterday."
"That shard was fragile."
"And offended?"
She almost smiled.
By midday, it became painfully obvious that something was wrong.
Aurelia misfiled documents. Forgot a scheduled call. Stared at a blueprint for a full minute before realizing it was upside down.
The worst part wasn't the mistakes.
It was the feeling.
As if the dream had left something behind—quiet, invisible, watching from just beyond the edge of her awareness. Not threatening. Not comforting.
Waiting.
During lunch, she found herself standing at the breakroom window, spoon unmoving in her soup as the image of marble halls rose unbidden in her mind.
They hadn't looked ancient in the way ruins did.
They had looked… lived in.
Power had clung to those walls. Not ceremonial. Not symbolic. Real. Heavy. The kind that bent people until they broke—or bled.
Aurelia frowned, shaking her head.
You're projecting, she told herself. You see ruins for a living. Of course your dreams are dramatic.
And yet—
Her fingers curled unconsciously.
She could still smell it.
Iron. Smoke. Something faintly floral beneath the blood.
That evening, as the office lights dimmed and staff began to leave, Aurelia lingered.
Victor poked his head in again. "You're not taking that thing home again, are you?"
She stiffened. "What thing?"
"The tile," he said. "The one you keep glaring at like it owes you money."
Her gaze flicked—against her will—to the secured case on her shelf.
"No," she said. "I'm… done with it for today."
Victor smiled, satisfied. "Good. Because if you collapse dramatically again, HR is going to ask questions."
"I did not collapse."
"You sat down very suddenly."
She huffed. "Go home, Victor."
"Yes, boss."
When he left, silence settled over the office.
Aurelia exhaled slowly and turned back to the case.
For a moment, she could have sworn the silver veins pulsed.
She blinked.
Nothing changed.
Still, unease curled low in her stomach.
Somewhere—far beyond her understanding—a memory had been stirred.
And whatever it belonged to…
…had not finished with her yet.