The institute's archives hummed with the low thrum of climate control as I descended into the basement levels, my keycard granting access to files that most researchers never knew existed. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting harsh shadows across rows of metal filing cabinets that stretched back into darkness.
Three hours had passed since Callum left my office, and I hadn't been able to shake the image of those impossible readings. The bidirectional resonance pattern, the disaster warnings embedded in his soul signature—it all pointed to something that shouldn't exist outside of theoretical models.
I pulled the heavy drawer marked "Historical Anomalies: 1700-1750" and began searching through manila folders thick with dust and age. My fingers trembled as I located the file I was looking for: "Mediterranean Catastrophic Event, 1724."
The first page made my blood run cold.
"Bidirectional soul resonance detected between two individuals in the coastal town of Ercolano. Pattern strength: unprecedented. Warning: When two resonant souls reunite, unprocessed emotional energy projects into the physical world."
I sank into the metal chair beside the filing cabinet, the folder heavy in my lap. The report was written in the careful script of Dr. Elisabetta Torriani, one of the institute's founding members. Page after page detailed the same readings I'd seen in Callum's file—the seeking patterns, the electromagnetic disturbances, the soul signatures burning with residual memory.
But it was the final entry that made my hands shake:
"Day 14: Subject A attempted to sever the connection through forced spiritual separation. Result: catastrophic energy backlash. Mount Vesuvius erupted at 11:47 PM. Entire coastline consumed. Both subjects perished. Note: Disaster was not caused by reunion of souls, but by violent rejection of bond. Suppressed resonance energy rebounded into physical realm."
The folder slipped from my numb fingers, papers scattering across the concrete floor. I stared at the black and white photographs clipped to the inside cover—aerial shots of a town that no longer existed, buried under layers of volcanic ash and hardened lava.
This meant I couldn't simply run from Callum. But I couldn't embrace whatever this was between us either. Both choices led to disaster.
The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, and I quickly gathered the scattered papers, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Sloane?" Maren's voice carried a note of concern as she appeared in the doorway, her red hair pulled back in a messy bun, glasses slightly askew. "It's almost midnight. What are you doing down here?"
I forced a smile, shoving the last of the documents back into the folder. "Research project. You know how it is."
She stepped closer, her dark eyes scanning my face with the practiced attention of someone who'd known me for three years. "You look like you've seen a ghost. What's in that file?"
"Historical data on soul resonance patterns." The lie came easier than it should have. "Nothing exciting."
Maren crossed her arms, her expression skeptical. "Since when do you research historical cases at midnight? And why are you shaking?"
I looked down at my hands, surprised to see them trembling against the manila folder. "I'm fine, Maren. Just tired."
"Bullshit." She pulled up another chair, the metal legs scraping against concrete. "I've been working late too, running calibration tests on the new equipment. Your office scanner went haywire around 2:30 this afternoon—registered readings that shouldn't be possible. Want to tell me what really happened?"
The weight of the secret pressed against my chest like a physical thing. Maren was my closest friend at the institute, the only person who knew about my recurring dreams and past-life memories. But this was different. This was dangerous.
"A client came in with unusual readings," I said carefully. "Strong past-life connections. I wanted to research similar cases."
"Strong enough to trigger system alarms?"
I met her eyes, seeing the worry there, the genuine concern that made my throat tight. "Maren, if you discovered something that could put people in danger, what would you do?"
Her expression grew serious. "Depends on the danger. Are we talking about psychological harm or something more immediate?"
The image of that buried coastline flashed through my mind. "More immediate."
"Then I'd contact Dr. Ashworth immediately. He has access to resources and protocols we don't." She leaned forward, her voice dropping. "Sloane, what aren't you telling me?"
Dr. Leland Ashworth. The institute's director, based out of the main facility in Atlanta. I'd met him exactly once, during my initial training—a tall, silver-haired man with eyes that seemed to see too much.
"You're right," I said, standing abruptly. "I should contact headquarters."
Maren looked relieved. "Good. Whatever this is, you don't have to handle it alone."
But as I climbed the stairs back to my office, folder clutched against my chest, I knew she was wrong. The historical records made one thing clear: when it came to bidirectional soul resonance, I was very much alone.
I settled behind my desk and pulled up the institute's internal directory, scrolling to Dr. Ashworth's contact information. My finger hovered over the call button for several seconds before I pressed it.
The phone rang once, twice—
"Dr. Ashworth's office." The voice was crisp, professional, despite the late hour.
"This is Sloane Windsor from the Savannah branch. I need to speak with Dr. Ashworth about an urgent matter."
"I'm sorry, but Dr. Ashworth is unavailable. He's been in emergency consultation for the past three weeks."
Three weeks. My stomach dropped. "Emergency consultation about what?"
"I'm not authorized to share those details. However, I can tell you that he requested access to your client database on August 15th. Specifically, any new registrations with unusual resonance patterns."
The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto my desk. August 15th was three weeks ago—long before Callum had made his appointment. Someone had known he was coming to Savannah. Someone had known he would end up in my office.
I stared at my computer screen, pulling up the appointment logs with shaking hands. Callum's appointment had been booked online through our automated system, but when I traced the IP address, it led to a VPN service that masked the true location.
Someone had orchestrated this meeting.
My phone buzzed against the desk, the screen lighting up with a text from an unknown number:
"You've seen the archives now. You know why you can't let him leave."
Ice flooded my veins as I stared at the message. Whoever had sent this was watching me, had been watching me long enough to know exactly what I'd discovered tonight.
Another message appeared:
"The pattern is already in motion. Fighting it will only make the backlash worse. You have until his next appointment to decide: embrace the connection, or watch Savannah burn."
