Aven's breath came in short, sharp bursts as he ran down the dark hallway, the beam of his penlight quivering over cracked tile and dusty display cases. Every shadow seemed to twist and shudder in the corners of his vision. He couldn't shake the echo of that voice whispering his name.
He turned another corner and froze.
There, under the pale glow of a broken exit sign, stood the woman in silver. Her coat shimmered like liquid metal, reflecting the blinking red emergency light overhead. She was staring at one of the exhibits—a cracked glass case containing what looked like a tangle of wires and plastic petals, labeled simply: "Mechanical Flower (Conceptual Model, Rejected)."
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then she spoke, her voice low and strangely musical. "It was supposed to bloom," she murmured. "In my time, they said this thing would save entire forests from extinction."
Aven gripped his clipboard tighter. "Who are you?" he demanded. "How did you get in here?"
She turned slowly. Her eyes were a pale, shimmering gray, like polished steel. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," she said softly.
"Try me."
She tilted her head, studying him as though memorizing his face. Then she stepped closer, the faintest trace of a smile on her lips. "My name is Rhea," she said. "I'm… from a timeline that doesn't exist anymore."
Aven blinked. "That's… not funny."
"It isn't meant to be." She looked around the hall, at the dead exhibits and the flickering lights. "This place is a graveyard. But sometimes, graveyards are the only places the dead can speak."
Aven swallowed, his throat dry. "I don't understand."
Rhea reached into her coat and pulled out a small device—a sleek, glass-like tablet that flickered with static as she turned it on. For a second, Aven saw a flash of text scroll across its surface: *ARCHIVE INCOMPLETE. MEMORY STREAM INTERRUPTED.*
She held it out to him. "Look."
Hesitant, he stepped forward, peering at the screen. A grainy image flickered into view: the museum, burning, exactly as he'd seen on the television screen earlier. But this time, he saw himself clearly, older, screaming orders to invisible people, clutching the same clipboard, pages scattering in the firestorm.
"What is this?" he whispered.
"A dead future," Rhea said. "A path that collapsed before it could become real. But something here… something in this museum is keeping these broken timelines alive. And it's leaking into yours."
Aven shook his head, stepping back. "That doesn't make sense. We just… archive things. We… preserve."
Rhea's eyes softened, almost sad. "That's what you think. But this place isn't preserving the past. It's trapping futures that should have died. And now they're hungry."
Suddenly, the emergency lights above them buzzed and died, plunging the hall into darkness. A soft hiss filled the air—like static, but thicker, stickier, vibrating in Aven's bones.
Rhea grabbed his wrist. "Run," she whispered.
Aven didn't hesitate. He followed as she sprinted down the corridor, weaving through broken exhibits, the glow of her tablet casting strange, shifting shadows along the walls.
Behind them, something moved. A scraping, slithering sound, punctuated by the wet slap of something heavy dragging across tile.
Aven chanced a glance over his shoulder—and nearly tripped. In the darkness, shapes moved. Blurred, flickering outlines of people, all featureless, leaking black mist from the holes where their eyes should have been.
"What are they?" he gasped.
"Echoes," Rhea said breathlessly. "Failed versions of us. They can't let go."
They burst into the main hall, the massive rotunda where the museum's largest exhibits loomed in glass cages: a towering mechanical skeleton, a half-built city model that pulsed faintly with dying lights, and in the center, the giant suspended globe that had once shown rotating holographic timelines.
The globe was dark now, cracked open like an egg.
Rhea dragged Aven behind one of the pillars. "Listen," she whispered, breath hot on his ear. "I don't know how much longer I can stay here. I'm not supposed to exist anymore. But you… you can end this."
Aven shook his head wildly. "How?! I'm just a junior curator! I don't know anything about—"
She pressed the flickering tablet into his hands. "Find the core exhibit," she said. "It's the first artifact the museum ever collected. It's the anchor. Destroy it, and the broken futures will vanish."
Aven stared at her. "But… that's… that's madness!"
Rhea smiled faintly, a sad, tired smile. "Maybe. Or maybe it's the only way either of us gets free."
A sudden crash echoed through the hall. One of the glass cages shattered, raining shards across the marble floor. The echo-creatures poured through the gap, crawling, twisting, moaning in voices like static.
Rhea shoved him. "Go!"
Aven stumbled back, clutching the tablet, as Rhea stepped into the open. The echo-creatures lunged toward her, shrieking. A blinding flash of light burst from her device, freezing them in place for just an instant.
"Run!" she shouted.
Aven turned and ran, the moans and crackling voices echoing behind him. He didn't look back.