I pulled a dusty accordion file from the bottom shelf, labeled nineteen ninety-nine.
The door behind me creaked, and Ethan’s shadow fell across the concrete floor. He did not enter the room; he simply stood in the doorway, his hand resting on the wooden frame.
“You are going to ruin your clothes in here,” he said.
“I am just organizing the old overhead projections,” I said, not looking up from the folder.
“I told you to leave the old files alone,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its public warmth. “Stop digging in the past.”
I did not reply. I kept my fingers on the cardboard tab of the folder until he turned and walked back toward his office.
Once the sound of his footsteps faded, I pulled the folder completely off the shelf. Behind it, tucked into the gap between the metal upright and the drywall, was a thin blue folder with no label.
I opened it under the single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.
