Thursday at 4:17 PM, the New York Public Library was far quieter than Angel expected. Rows upon rows of books stretched endlessly around them, while students, researchers, and tourists moved quietly between the shelves.
Angel sat at a large wooden table near the archive section, flipping through a stack of old newspapers. Across from her, Miley looked completely bored.
"I hate this project."
Angel didn't even look up. "You hate all projects."
"That's because they're all terrible."
Angel smiled. For the last hour, they had been searching through newspaper archives from the 1980s. Most of it had been incredibly dry—building permits, local politics, and old advertisements. Nothing useful.
Until Miley suddenly slid a newspaper across the wooden table. "Angel, look at this."
Angel frowned as she read the headline: LOCAL MAN FOUND DEAD IN APARTMENT; Authorities Rule Suicide.
The article described a man found dead in his apartment with no signs of forced entry and no evidence of a struggle. Case closed. Suicide. Except, as Angel flipped to the next article, and the next, and the next, a chilling pattern emerged.
They were all terrifyingly similar—different victims across different years, but all taking place in the exact same apartment building, and all with the exact same conclusion.
Angel slowly sat back. "That's weird."
"Very weird," Miley agreed, pointing toward a specific paragraph. "Look at this one. His parents said he was actively planning his wedding."
As Angel read on, her stomach tightened. Another victim had just gotten a major promotion. Another had recently bought a house. Another had been celebrating the birth of a child. None of them seemed remotely suicidal, yet every single case had been ruled the same way.
Miley shivered, folding her arms. "Okay, I officially hate this. We should pick a different topic. Normal people research old buildings. We're researching serial depression."
Angel burst out laughing at the phrase, but Miley looked genuinely horrified. "This is creepy, Angel. Let's find something less murder-y."
"No way," Angel shook her head, thoroughly intrigued. "I'm getting another archive book."
"Bring back one that isn't haunted," Miley muttered.
Angel rolled her eyes and headed deeper into the archive section. Tall shelves surrounded her, and dust floated through the heavy beams of afternoon sunlight. The entire area felt strangely isolated.
She reached up for a book on the top shelf, but the moment her fingers brushed the spine, she froze.
The world abruptly shifted.
Suddenly, she was looking at a cheerleading field under bright stadium lights. Crowds were cheering loudly. A girl spun around, laughing. She had white hair, striking blue eyes, and wore a cheerleader uniform. It was the exact same girl from her previous vision, looking vibrant, happy, and completely alive.
Then, just as quickly as it came, the vision vanished.
Angel stumbled backward, a gasp escaping her lips as her balance gave out. Before she could hit the floor, strong hands grabbed her shoulders, steadying her. Her heart nearly stopped. For one brief, terrifying second, she thought she recognized the feeling of those hands.
Angel looked up. The figure wore a black hoodie and dark hair, his face heavily hidden beneath the shadows of his hood. It was the boy from her dreams.
Her breath caught in her throat. As the boy made sure she was steady, his hand accidentally brushed against hers. It was ice cold. Not just chilly, but freezing—like touching winter itself. Angel immediately jerked away from the touch, and the boy released her at once. Neither of them spoke; they simply stared at one another in the quiet aisle.
"Angel?" Miley's voice suddenly echoed from between the shelves.
The boy turned instantly and walked away, disappearing around the corner before Miley could even reach the aisle.
"Angel?" Miley frowned, catching up to her. "You okay?"
Angel kept her eyes locked on the empty corridor, her pulse still racing wildly. "Yeah."
Miley followed her gaze. "What are you looking at?"
"Nothing," Angel hesitated. There was nothing there anymore—just empty shelves, old books, and heavy silence. A strange, lingering feeling settled deep in her stomach, but she knew for a fact she hadn't imagined him.
About twenty minutes later, back at their table, Miley suddenly gasped. "Oh my God."
Angel looked up from her notes, exhausted. "What now?"
Miley shoved her phone across the table.
"Look."
Frowning, Angel looked down at the screen. A breaking news article filled the screen, and beneath it was a photograph of two very familiar figures stepping out of a private jet: Edward and Victoria Dove.
Angel immediately sat upright. "What?"
"They're back," Miley grinned. "Looks like your house is about to become busy again."
Angel stared at the article. Her parents weren't supposed to return for another week, but the article—which was already gathering thousands of comments—stated that one of New York's most influential couples had arrived back in the city only an hour ago.
A genuine smile slowly appeared on Angel's face. For the first time all afternoon, the strange deaths, the eerie vision, and the mysterious hooded boy completely disappeared from her mind. Her parents were finally home.