Vereluna hides more than it reveals

Where memory fades, shadows consume.

Can what’s lost be reclaimed?

Ariel gasped. Cold sweat soaked her forehead. Her breath came shallow. Dry. Light pierced through the tall windows; specks of dust stirred in the air like fallen ash. She winced; a wave of smells crashed against her senses.

Wood. Worn paper. Dust.

Where—?

She blinked. 

Bookshelves. Her desk. Morning.                                        

The library.

How did I get back here?

She forced herself upright. Her skin felt clammy. Air scraped the back of her throat. Her hands trembled as she touched her face. Her eyes ached—too bright, too fragmented. Ariel’s thoughts slipped, unable to catch them.

“Cuet…tz…Maya—” she rasped. The word cracked, hung on her lips.

She reached for her pocket. Empty. Her notepad was gone.

“Damn. Where is it?”

Her eyes darted between the bookshelves, scanned the floor, and checked all around her person. Still nothing. Panic surged. She knelt down. There. A flash of cardboard caught her attention under one of the shelves.

Dust clung to her fingers as she pulled out the notepad. The familiar pages steadied her shaking hands.

A slight relief swept through her. Her legs buckled as she collapsed into her chair. Forced air in. Forced calm.

Focus. List everything.

Time- 9:00 am. Clothes- same as yesterday. No wounds.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, echoed by the thundering in her forehead.

No signs of trauma. No signs of struggle or break-in. Last known location- south. South of the city. Near a cacti patch. With…

She froze.

With Maya.

Maya’s memory punched through the fog.

Yelling? No. She stood still. Just…stood. Watching. But not watching me. Fixed on something. Guarded.

A cold shudder washed through her.

Last feeling- Warm. Then cold.

Then nothing.

Ariel stared at the page. The words felt off. Fragmented. Irrational.

This doesn’t make sense. What happened?

Voices murmured in the halls.

Footsteps followed. A clutter of noises approached. Ariel flinched.

Ugh. It’s a workday.

She looked down. Yesterday’s clothes. Wrinkled, screaming slept in. Her hair was no better, tossed and messy, clumping to one side. A frustrated sigh escaped her lips. Too late to go home.

This is going to be a fun day. Welp, they can’t see me like this.

She stood, legs shaky and unbalanced. Ariel slipped down the hallway, clinging to the corners and avoiding people at all costs. The walls betrayed every step, echoing in the silence as she passed. After an eternity, she made it to the staff restroom.

The overhead lights buzzed. Bleached tiles burned her senses. The custodians were always a little overzealous with the stuff. A long mirror stretched across the three sinks.

Ariel huffed at her reflection. Her face looked pale. Drawn. Dark circles sagged under her eyes.

I look like I crawled out of my grave.

She turned the faucet on, splashed her face, and tried to smooth her hair. Her skin became taut. Not much could have been done about her clothes. It had to make do.

This is as good as it’s going to get. She sighed. Not like I get visitors anyway.

The hours crawled.

Each second scraped by like nails on a chalkboard.

Ariel’s patience had long departed.

She noted the time. A little while longer, and she could escape. She’d be free to piece together what the hells happened yesterday, why her memory was filled with holes.

The library had been bare for days. Most visitors came and went without a word.

But of course, today of all days, two tourists showed up. Enthusiasts, apparently. Both enthralled by dated, worn books. Books no one bothered to read. Books untouched for months, maybe longer.

At least they handled them like they mattered. That’s more than most.

One of them was a dark-skinned man with wavy hair. Nothing unusual at first glance. But he seemed unfamiliar with everything. The way he moved told her that he was foreign. Probably American. His Thunderskull shirt gave him away—comics guy.

The other was slightly taller. Paler, with blonde hair and an aquiline nose. Something was different. It made Ariel pause. When their eyes met, she felt a faint twitch in her chest. Not familiarity, but recognition.

A quiet, mutual understanding.

The kind that didn’t need words or labels.

Ariel tilted her head slightly. The visitor smirked. Just a flicker. The visitor moved like someone who’d been misread one too many times. Someone who learned to find space between checkboxes.

“Page,” the blonde visitor said. “Page Simmons. My friends call me ‘Book’. This is Vicente. He prefers ‘Thunderskull’, if the shirt wasn’t obvious enough.”

Vicente gave a billboard-sized grin. “Nice to meet you. We weren’t expecting to find so many ‘first edition’ books. They could be their own exhibit.”

Ariel’s eyes narrowed, arms crossed. “Something offensive about first editions, ‘Thunderskull’?”

“Nah, just surprised the glue’s still holding on.”

“Barely,” she said with a sharp, measured tone. “But some of us find value in first takes. Before the revisions. Before the world has a say in them.”

Page lifted a hand, simulating a white flag. “We meant no offense. This library is very impressive in its own way. Like something preserved, frozen in time.”

Ariel raised an eyebrow. “Untouched, mostly. Not many visitors come here, much less with enthusiasm. Except for—”

She glanced up. The clock overhead ticked past 3:00.

Odd. She’s usually bursting through the door by now.

Vicente tilted his head. “Except for…who?”

Ariel blinked. “Just thinking out loud. You’re the first ones today, that’s all.”

“To be fair,” Page said. “The cryptid exhibit was what caught our eyes first. The one across the hall. It looks…unopened?”

“A work in progress,” Ariel said. “I’m curating the pieces as we speak.”

“Oh, sweet!” Vicente’s voice echoed. “So, you’re the cryptid boss lady?”

Ariel sighed. “Let’s go with ‘curator’. Thanks.”

“Any chance it’ll be open soon?” Page asked.

“By the month’s end,” Ariel replied. “If everything lines up.”

Vicente leaned in. “Think we’ll still be around?”

“As small as this town is, there’s more than I expected,” Page muttered. “We might still be around.”

Ariel smirked. “Hopefully the ghosts don’t chase you off beforehand.”

Vicente froze, his grin faltering. “Ghosts?!”

“Ghosts don’t exist,” Page offered in a soothing tone.

Ariel leaned in with a whisper. “The locals say different. They say the spirits come out at night. Looking for—”

She peeked behind her, then faced Vicente. “—Fresh victims.”

Vicente’s eyes darted, bouncing between the shelves like they’d start whispering.

“Nah…you’re messing with me. Right?”

Ariel shrugged, facing toward the cryptid exhibit. “Perhaps. Or perhaps you’re what they’ve been waiting for.”

Page tilted their head, exhaling softly.

“Let’s keep the ghost stories in the books. But thanks for the warning.”

Ariel gave an amused smile. She turned away, drifting back toward the darkened corners of the library. “I should get back to work. You know…curating ghosts, cryptids, and whatever else haunts this place.”

The duo watched her go.

Vicente scratched the back of his neck. “She wasn’t joking, was she?”

Page shrugged, exhaling softly. “I couldn't get a good read. But do you dare to find out if she wasn’t?”

The two of them wandered off toward the museum’s entrance, whispers of laughter echoed faintly behind them.

***

The sun dipped below the horizon. Quitting time. The library’s locks clunked as Ariel turned the key.

She stepped down the museum’s steps. Questions from this morning raced through her mind.

What happened yesterday?

Why didn’t she remember?

And where was Maya?

She exhaled sharply, turning south.

Whatever’s going on here, the answers had to be there…on the south side of town.

She started walking—

looking to find the missing link,

for the missing answers,

for Maya.

For the piece of herself she didn’t remember losing.