The library was eerily quiet, with only a few students scattered across the lower floor, their whispers blending into the faint hum of fluorescent lights. School had ended, but the library remained open for those who needed the extra study time. Iris, Sean, Freya, and Phoebe climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the digital archives. The upper level was almost entirely deserted; rows of empty desks stretched out before them like an abandoned study hall.
As they stepped into the space, faint whispers drifted from the farthest corner of the room. The sound was soft and indistinct, like a conversation caught on the edge of hearing. The group exchanged uneasy glances.
“What’s that?” Phoebe murmured, her voice low.
Sean tilted his head toward the source of the sound and began walking cautiously in its direction, the others trailing close behind. As they approached, the whispers abruptly ceased, plunging the space into silence. Sean froze mid-step and turned to the group, mouthing, "What should I do?"
Freya sighed, exasperated but unafraid. "Honestly, Sean." She brushed past him, rounding the corner. "Hey, guys!" she said brightly, her voice cutting through the stillness.
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Reluctantly, the rest of the group followed, rounding the corner to find Dahlia, Airam, and Pandora huddled around a table, their heads snapping up in surprise.
“What are you guys doing?” Freya asked, arching a suspicious eyebrow.
“Uh… just reading some books,” Dahlia replied nervously, her voice higher than usual. She quickly closed the nearest book, but not before Sean’s sharp eyes caught a glimpse of its contents.
Sean wandered closer, his curiosity piqued. A book on the table caught his attention—a large, leather-bound volume filled with photographs and notes. Something about it seemed strangely familiar. He leaned in, flipping to a page where a black-and-white photograph stared back at him.
His breath hitched. The image was grainy but unmistakable: a group of people posed stiffly in front of an old stone building. His eyes scanned the faces, his pulse quickening as he recognized them—faces he knew too well. They were all there: Dahlia, Airam, Pandora, Iris, Freya, Phoebe, and even himself, dressed in 1920s attire.
“Guys…” Sean said, his voice trailing off as he stared at the photograph. The others leaned over his shoulder, their collective breaths catching as realization dawned.
“Well,” Sean finally said, breaking the stunned silence, “I think we’ve got some answers about this Florence Costea girl.” He looked up, his expression a mix of awe and unease. “But now we’ve got even more questions.”