Ethan’s jaw tightened.
“You knew what it opened because you broke into this shed a month ago.”
Silence.
I slowly turned toward Victor.
“You were here?”
He hesitated for the first time all evening.
“The lock wasn’t exactly difficult.”
“You trespassed?”
“I was curious.”
“You invaded my family’s property,” Ethan said coldly.
Victor ignored him.
“I walked inside.”
His eyes returned to me.
“And I found this.”
He gestured toward the walls.
“A shrine.”
“It’s not a shrine,” Ethan replied firmly.
“No?”
Victor raised one eyebrow.
“It certainly looks like one.”
I looked again at the photographs.
From where I stood…
It absolutely did.
Every version of myself.
Every age.
Every stage of life.
Connected by red thread running across the walls.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
The air heavier.
Victor lowered his voice.
“Amelia…”
“You should leave with me.”
That sentence snapped something inside me.
“No.”
Both men looked at me.
I took one steady breath.
“No one is leaving anywhere until someone explains why I’m standing inside a building covered with pictures of my own face.”
Neither spoke.
“Now.”
For several seconds, Ethan remained perfectly still.
Finally…
He nodded.
“You’re right.”
He walked toward one of the shelves lining the back wall.
There sat dozens of old archive boxes, each labeled with years and community events.
Harvest Festival 1998.
County Fair 2001.
School Sports Day.
Church Picnic.
Spring Parade.
He carefully lifted down one box.
The cardboard had yellowed with age.
Written across the front in elegant handwriting were the words:
Harvest Festival 2001
He carried it to the desk.
“My grandmother,” he began quietly, “was named Rose.”
I said nothing.
“For over fifty years…”
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