Chapter 7 The Morning After

POV: Jonah

The morning light seeped through the tall windows of the museum, sliding along polished wood and glass like liquid gold. It caught in the corners of display cases, refracted against the new frames of my glasses, and I found myself adjusting them again, a subtle reminder that the years hadn’t been kind—or maybe that I hadn’t been gentle with myself. Ten years. Ten years since she’d walked these halls, ten years of learning to lock the past away in neat boxes just like the crates stacked in the lab.

I ran my hand over the edge of the desk, fingers brushing the smooth surface as if seeking reassurance in its solidity. The smell of cedar and lemon polish filled the air, mingling with a faint, lingering musk of old paper, a scent that always reminded me why I loved this place and why it had almost broken me in equal measure. My pulse ticked against my ribs, not loud, not frantic, but insistent, like a metronome counting down to something unavoidable.

I rechecked the crates. Each one was carefully labeled and aligned. W. Blackwood. The name felt foreign and familiar at once. My fingers lingered on the tape sealing the largest crate, tracing its ridges absently. Would she be good? Would she recognize me? The thought made my stomach tighten. I refused to let it show, yet even as I straightened another crate, a faint tremor in my hands betrayed me.

Dr. Webb’s voice cut through the quiet, smooth as polished stone. “Morning, Jonah.”

I kept my gaze on the labels, tapping the edge of one crate with precision. “Morning,” I said, neutral, controlled. Neutrality was armor, and right now, I needed it more than anything.

“You seem… off,” Webb continued, leaning lightly against the doorway. “Excited? Nervous?” His tone had that teasing lilt that always managed to unsettle me just a fraction.

I shook my head, forcing my posture to remain impeccable. “Neither,” I said. I aligned a pair of delicate forceps on the workbench, straightening them until they caught the light perfectly. The action grounded me, a familiar rhythm to counter the irregular pounding of my heart.

Webb’s eyebrows lifted, sharp, alert. “Sure. You’ve got this under control. Don’t let a new hire rattle you before breakfast.”

I swallowed, tightening my jaw. “I’ll handle it,” I said, careful to keep my tone calm, even. Honest words, but not the full truth. Not the part that whispered in the back of my mind: She’s coming back. She’s here. And nothing will ever be the same.

He smirked, shifting on his heels. “Alright, alright. But remember—some surprises aren’t worth ignoring.” With that, he left, leaving only the faint echo of his footsteps and a tension I could almost taste.

Sage appeared from around the corner, hair in its usual bun, clipboard tapping lightly against her wrist. She leaned against the doorway, green eyes bright, sharp, catching mine just long enough to make me straighten instinctively. She had that look, the one that always read right through me.

“Morning,” she said, tilting her head, her voice carrying a mix of amusement and challenge. “I get to meet the new taxidermist first.”

My chest tightened. My fingers brushed the edge of a crate again, this time harder than necessary. I didn’t speak immediately, letting her words hang. “And you’re telling me this because…?” I kept my voice neutral, carefully measured, even though my mind raced.

Sage’s grin widened, playful but deliberate. “Because it’s my duty. And also, someone has to check if they survive your infamous ‘welcome.’”

I tightened my jaw, forcing my shoulders to remain steady. “I’ll handle it,” I said evenly. My words were firm, controlled, hiding the flutter of nerves beneath.

She waved a hand, not backing down. “Sure, sure. But I’ll be watching anyway. Just don’t trip over your own standards.”

I ignored her, moving around my office. Each step was measured and deliberate, my boots clicking softly against the polished floor. The lab around me was silent but for the occasional hum of the lights, the soft creak of a hinge, the whisper of the air moving past crates and benches. Every detail mattered. Every object and breath was aligned and calculated. My life had become a study in control, and today, of all days, I needed it more than ever.

I paused at my desk. The surface gleamed, each folder stacked meticulously by priority, every pen aligned with exacting precision. I adjusted my glasses again, silver frames catching the morning sun. The reflection in the glass made me flinch. I looked older—sharper somehow. The lines around my mouth had deepened, carved by time and choices. Still, beneath it all, I was Jonah Webb. A curator and organizer. The quiet keeper of this fragile, breathing world. And for a moment, that truth ached in my chest. I took a slow breath, letting the mixture of cedar and polish fill my lungs, grounding myself to stay focused.

The clock ticked relentlessly toward nine—each second a soft, insistent reminder of what was coming, a rhythm of inevitability. My pulse quickened, subtle but sharp, though I kept my expression steady and composed. W. Blackwood was about to arrive, and everything after this moment would shift.

Sage appeared again, clipboard tapping lightly. “You’re thinking too much,” she said, her voice low, teasing.

“When am I not?” I replied, not looking at her. My gaze stayed on the crates, on the edges of the labels, not saying her name out loud. I didn’t need to.

Sage’s smirk deepened. “Point taken,” she murmured. She tapped the nearest crate lightly. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

I paused, fingers brushing the corner of my desk. My breath hitched faintly before I could steady it. “I’m ready,” I said, voice even but carrying a slight edge. A promise, yes. But also a warning.

She tilted her head, her green eyes sharp. “You sure?”

“Yes,” I said again, firmer this time, pushing the flutter of nerves aside.

She leaned lightly on the table, crossing her arms, voice softening. “Alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Mystery Blackwood may change everything.”

I didn’t answer. I simply straightened another crate, adjusting the tape, brushing the edges until every line was exact. The ritual steadied me, anchored me.

I took a seat at my desk, hands clasped together. Sunlight slanted across the room, touching the corners of display cases and glinting on the metal frames of my glasses. I could see the faint sheen on the polished wood, the faint fingerprints I hadn’t yet erased. Every detail, perfect. But nothing could prepare me for the moment when the door opened and she stepped inside.

I closed my eyes briefly, letting the sounds of the museum fill me. The soft hum of the lights. The faint scrape of a chair in the distance. The rustle of pages from a ledger somewhere in the far room. Each sound a thread, each a tether to the normalcy I fought to maintain.

Sage’s voice broke through again. “Better be ready, Jonah. They’re punctual. And I mean exactly nine o’clock.”

I exhaled slowly, straightening in my chair. I had rehearsed this moment in my head a thousand times, each variation carefully measured, but none of them captured the truth. None of them captured her.

My hands hovered over my desk again, brushing the smooth wood as I tried to steady my pulse. Blackwood. Wren. The name held a lot of things and memories which I didn’t want to remember, and a familiar weight I hadn’t realized I was still carrying. My heart thudded, not in fear, but in anticipation.

The clock ticked once. Twice. Three times. Each second stretching, elongating, a taut string pulled tighter. My breath came in shallow, steady pulls. Every detail of the office, the lab, the crates, the polished floor, the faint aroma of cedar—all of it pressed against me.

Nine o’clock.

I rose, shoulders back, chest square. The door would open. And nothing in my carefully curated, ordered life would remain the same.