2

The thought hit me with the first rays of dawn: the Ravenswood Historical Library. It was my only hope, the only place with records old enough to possibly explain the disappearances.

But Carl's words, that carefully constructed calm that felt more like a mask, still echoed in my ears. No, I couldn't rely on anyone. Not Carl, not anyone. This investigation, this desperate search for answers for Eli, had to be mine alone. I would find the truth, independently, or I would die trying.

—

The air hung heavy with the scent of aged paper, leather, and faintly, wood polish – a musty aroma that clung to the back of my throat. A silence, thick and heavy, pressed down on me, punctuated only by the faintest rustle of pages and the occasional groan of the ancient floorboards, as if the very building itself were whispering secrets it didn't want revealed.

Leaving the damp chill of the forest behind, I stepped into the Ravenswood Historical Library, my heart hammering a nervous rhythm against my ribs. I wasn't here for answers, not really. My gut, that usually reliable compass, had led me here, and in this town, gut instincts were rarely wrong.

Dust motes danced in the lone shaft of sunlight slicing through the gloom, illuminating the chaotic beauty of the library. Years melted away, replaced by a poignant nostalgia as I traced the spines of forgotten texts. Each book held a whispered story, a silent promise of adventure waiting to be rediscovered.

The air itself hummed with the ghosts of countless students, their hushed whispers echoing in the cavernous space. A forgotten scent. Old paper, leather, and something indefinably academic, clung to the air, a comforting familiarity in the midst of the overwhelming silence. It felt like stepping into a time capsule, a sanctuary where time stood still, waiting patiently for the next curious soul to unlock its secrets. The silence, once oppressive, now felt protective, a comforting embrace in the heart of this scholarly haven.

"Hello?" I whispered, my voice a fragile echo in the vast space. No answer. Only the soft rustle of turning pages, a phantom sound from some unseen reader lost in the labyrinthine stacks. I chuckled softly. "Guess I'm not the only one who likes a little solitude." A faint creak from a nearby shelf made me jump, a playful ghost reminding me I wasn't alone after all. "Alright, alright," I murmured, a smile playing on my lips. "Let's see what secrets you're hiding.”

The paper felt brittle beneath my fingertips as I pulled out a thick folder labeled Missing Persons: 1930–Present. The yellowed clippings crackled softly as I flipped through them, each one a faded echo of a life interrupted. It was tedious work – names, blurry photos that seemed to stare out with accusing eyes, brief police quotes offering little hope, most cases unsolved, forever lingering in the realm of unanswered questions. But as I went back further, sifting through the layers of time… something began to take shape, a chilling pattern emerging from the chaos.

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