Chapter 72: Track
The chime rang a second time.
Clear.
Metallic.
Close.
Every conversation behind me stopped.
Detective Hale turned sharply.
"Did everyone hear that?"
Noah nodded.
"So it wasn’t just me."
One of the officers instinctively swept his flashlight across the railway tracks.
Another searched the warehouse roof.
The sound hadn’t come from either direction.
I looked down.
The cracked concrete beneath my feet.
The second inscription.
The first Observer lied.
The words felt heavier now, as though the chime had awakened them.
"Adrian?"
Noah stepped beside me.
"What are you looking at?"
I pointed toward the lower section of the wall.
"There."
Detective Hale approached first, crouching beside the brickwork.
His flashlight revealed the carved sentence more clearly.
Unlike the fresh chalk message, these words had weathered years of rain and dust.
The edges were smooth.
Whoever carved them had done so a long time ago.
"The first Observer lied..." Hale read quietly.
Professor Ellis limped closer, supported by one of the paramedics.
His face paled.
"I’ve never seen this before."
"It couldn’t have been carved tonight."
"It wasn’t."
Detective Hale ran a gloved finger just above the letters without touching them.
"The brick has aged around the cuts."
"This is old."
"Very old."
One of the officers frowned.
"But we searched this wall."
"I would’ve noticed something like that."
"So would I," another added.
The detective stood.
"Then either all of us somehow missed it..."
He didn’t finish the sentence.
None of us wanted to.
Because the alternative was worse.
That it hadn’t been there until now.
The chime echoed again.
This time there was no doubt.
It came from below.
Detective Hale looked toward the ground.
"There has to be some kind of maintenance tunnel."
One of the older officers nodded.
"Most freight depots built before the war had underground service corridors."
"Drainage."
"Cable access."
"Storage."
Hale immediately turned to him.
"Find the blueprints."
"If the city archives still have them."
The officer stepped away to make the call.
Meanwhile, Noah slowly walked across the warehouse floor.
His flashlight lingered on every crack and stain.
He wasn’t searching randomly.
He was following the sound.
I joined him.
"You hear it too?"
He nodded.
"It echoes."
"But..."
He looked thoughtful.
"...the echo isn’t natural."
"What do you mean?"
He tapped the concrete gently with the heel of his shoe.
A dull sound answered.
Three steps later he repeated the motion.
This time the response was different.
Hollow.
He froze.
"So there is something underneath."
Detective Hale heard it as well.
He walked over and tapped the same section with the handle of his flashlight.
The hollow sound returned.
The detective looked around.
"Bring me a pry bar."
Within a minute an officer returned with an iron bar taken from the forensic van.
Everyone stepped back.
The detective wedged the tip into a narrow crack running across the floor.
He pushed.
Nothing happened.
He adjusted the angle and tried again.
A deep metallic groan echoed beneath the warehouse.
Dust rained from the ceiling.
The concrete slab shifted less than an inch.
Noah’s eyes widened.
"That’s not concrete."
The detective nodded.
"It’s a steel hatch."
The officers exchanged uneasy glances.
The hatch had been covered with a thin layer of poured concrete years ago, concealing its outline.
Only age and weather had exposed the seams again.
Together, three officers worked the pry bars beneath the edges.
The metal shrieked in protest.
Then—
With a deafening clang—
The hatch lifted.
A rush of stale air escaped from below.
Cold.
Dry.
And carrying the unmistakable smell of old paper.
Not decay.
Paper.
Everyone instinctively shined their flashlights downward.
Stone steps disappeared into darkness.
Professor Ellis whispered almost to himself.
"There were no tunnels on the official depot plans."
Detective Hale looked back at him.
"The official plans may not have been complete."
No one volunteered to go first.
The detective looked at his team.
"I’ll take two officers."
He glanced toward Noah and me.
"You stay here."
Noah immediately nodded.
"Of course."
The detective hesitated.
Then he looked at Professor Ellis.
"You too."
Ellis didn’t argue.
Three flashlights descended into the darkness.
Their beams slowly vanished beneath the floor.
For several moments only their footsteps echoed upward.
Then silence.
Noah folded his arms.
"I don’t like this."
"Neither do I."
Professor Ellis remained focused on the open hatch.
His lips moved silently.
Almost as if he were trying to remember something.
"What is it?" I asked.
He looked at me.
"I’ve seen those words before."
"The Observer?"
He nodded slowly.
"Years ago."
"In a notebook."
"What notebook?"
"I can’t remember."
His frustration was obvious.
"I know it existed."
"I know I read it."
"But..."
He pressed two fingers against his temple.
"...it’s like someone tore the pages out of my memory."
A blue notification appeared.
______
Memory Interference Detected.
Source Unknown.
Probability of external alteration:
87%.
______
The window disappeared before I could react.
External alteration.
Someone—or something—had altered Professor Ellis’s memories.
A shout rose from below.
"Inspector!"
It was one of the officers.
"You need to see this!"
Detective Hale’s voice answered immediately.
"Nobody comes down until I say so."
A minute later footsteps hurried back up the stairs.
The detective emerged first.
His face had lost all color.
One of the officers behind him carried a leather-bound journal sealed inside an evidence bag.
The third officer looked as though he hadn’t spoken in years.
Hale climbed out of the hatch and looked directly at Professor Ellis.
"You said there weren’t any records."
"There aren’t."
"There are now."
He accepted the evidence bag from the officer.
The journal was black.
Its leather had cracked with age.
There was no title.
Only a symbol embossed into the cover.
A pocket watch.
Its hands pointed to 11:17.
Professor Ellis stared.
"I’ve never seen that."
"You have."
Detective Hale’s reply was immediate.
He opened the journal to the first page.
Several names had been written in neat black ink.
Most had faded.
Some had been crossed out.
Near the bottom, one entry stood untouched.
The detective slowly read it aloud.
"Witness One."
"Witness Two."
"Witness Three."
There was a long pause before he spoke the final line.
"Witness Four..."
His eyes stopped moving.
The warehouse fell silent.
Noah took one step forward.
"What is it?"
Detective Hale didn’t answer.
He simply turned the journal around.
At the bottom of the page, written in ink that looked almost fresh, were four names.
Professor Andrew Ellis.
Detective Victor Hale.
Noah Walker.
And...
Adrian Cross.
The date beside them wasn’t today’s.
It was tomorrow’s.