Chapter 76: Fifth witness
The countdown continued.
71:59:58
It hovered in the corner of my vision.
Unlike the ten-minute timer at the depot, this one didn’t flash or pulse.
It simply existed.
Steady.
Patient.
As though seventy-two hours was more than enough.
The emergency lights cast long crimson shadows across the principal’s office.
No one moved.
The empty wooden box still rested on the desk.
The principal reached inside with both hands.
Nothing.
He checked beneath the lid.
Removed the velvet lining.
Turned the box upside down.
Not a single card fell out.
Ryan stared in disbelief.
"...I saw them."
"So did I," Ethan whispered.
"There had to be at least fifty."
Noah picked up the box.
"May I?"
The principal nodded absentmindedly.
Noah inspected every corner.
His fingers pressed gently against the wooden panels.
He tapped the bottom twice.
Solid.
"No false compartment."
"No hidden mechanism."
He passed it to me.
I noticed something immediately.
The wood was unusually cold.
Not the coolness of polished timber.
It felt more like stone left outside during winter.
Then I saw it.
Inside the empty box, scratched into the wood beneath where the cards had rested, were three tiny letters.
A.S.
"So?" Ryan asked.
"What is it?"
I pointed inside.
Everyone leaned closer.
The principal frowned.
"I don’t remember seeing that."
"It was covered by the cards."
Detective Hale’s words from the depot echoed in my mind.
Every piece of evidence leaves something behind.
"A.S..."
Professor Ellis wasn’t here to recognise it.
None of us did.
Not yet.
---
The principal closed the lid.
"I’m locking this in the academy safe."
Noah looked up.
"With respect, sir..."
"I don’t think that’s going to help."
The principal smiled weakly.
"Probably not."
"But I need to do something."
He carried the box toward the large steel safe behind his desk.
The heavy door swung open.
Stacks of financial records and examination papers filled the shelves.
The box disappeared inside.
The safe closed with a loud metallic click.
A keypad beeped.
The principal entered a six-digit code.
"There."
Ryan folded his arms.
"So..."
"What exactly do we tell people?"
The room fell silent.
The principal answered first.
"The truth."
Ethan blinked.
"Which truth?"
The principal sighed.
"Professor Ellis became ill."
"The police are investigating an unrelated matter."
"The Mystery Research Club will suspend activities until further notice."
Ryan frowned.
"People aren’t going to believe that."
"No."
The principal agreed quietly.
"But it’s the only explanation they’ll receive."
The four of us left the administration building together.
The afternoon sun felt strangely unreal after the crimson glow of the emergency lights.
Students crossed the courtyard as if nothing had happened.
Someone was practicing violin beneath a tree.
A group argued about football.
The ordinary world continued refusing to acknowledge the extraordinary.
Ryan finally broke the silence.
"I hate this."
Noah glanced at him.
"The mystery?"
"The waiting."
Ryan shoved both hands into his pockets.
"We’re always one step behind."
"Evidence disappears."
"People forget things."
"We finally find something..."
"...and it vanishes."
No one disagreed.
Because he was right.
Ethan spoke for the first time.
"What if..."
He hesitated.
"...what if that’s the point?"
We looked at him.
"What do you mean?"
"If someone wanted to hide a murder..."
"They’d destroy evidence."
"If someone wanted to hide an entire story..."
He looked toward the administration building.
"...they’d destroy memory."
Noah stopped walking.
For several seconds he simply stared at Ethan.
Then he nodded slowly.
"I’ve been thinking the same thing."
Ryan looked between them.
"So this isn’t about murder?"
"It’s about history."
Noah corrected.
"Murder is just part of it."
His words lingered in the air.
History.
Not crime.
That single distinction changed everything.
---
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A text message.
Do not let Hale read Page 117.
Nothing else.
I stopped walking.
The others noticed immediately.
"What happened?" Noah asked.
I looked down.
The message remained on the screen.
For the first time...
It didn’t disappear.
I quickly took a screenshot.
Success.
The image saved.
Then—
The original message vanished.
I opened the screenshot.
Empty.
Only my wallpaper remained.
Ryan looked over my shoulder.
"What were you trying to show us?"
I frowned.
"There was..."
I stopped.
Had there been?
No.
I remembered reading it.
Every word.
Yet there was no proof.
Noah studied my expression.
"You remembered something."
"I did."
"What was it?"
I looked at him.
"Someone warned me."
"About Detective Hale."
Ryan frowned.
"Who?"
"I don’t know."
The academy bell rang.
Students began moving toward their next classes.
Ryan sighed.
"I suppose pretending to study is better than thinking about this."
He headed toward the humanities building.
Ethan followed him after a brief wave.
Only Noah remained beside me.
He waited until the others disappeared before speaking.
"I’ve been keeping something from you."
I looked at him.
"So have I."
"I know."
His answer caught me off guard.
"You do?"
He nodded.
"I don’t know what it is."
"But ever since the exhibition..."
"You’ve been reacting to things nobody else can see."
I remained silent.
"I’m not asking you to explain."
"Not today."
He took a folded sheet of paper from his notebook.
"I just want you to look at this."
He handed it to me.
It was a photocopy.
A class photograph.
Old.
Very old.
The date in the corner read:
1983
Students stood in four neat rows.
Teachers behind them.
At first nothing seemed unusual.
Then Noah pointed toward the back row.
"I found this in the academy archives."
A young teacher stood among the staff.
Silver hair.
Long coat.
Lucien.
Exactly the same.
My pulse quickened.
"The records identify him as a temporary literature lecturer."
"How long did he teach?"
Noah’s expression darkened.
"That’s the strange part."
"There are payroll records."
"There are meeting minutes."
"There are lesson schedules."
"But..."
"No personnel file."
"No address."
"No identification."
"It’s like..."
"He was accepted by everyone..."
"...without ever existing."
I stared at the photograph.
Lucien wasn’t hiding.
He was smiling.
Standing comfortably among people who had probably never questioned him.
Noah folded the paper again.
"I’ve checked every decade."
"He’s there."
"1972."
"1983."
"1996."
"2008."
"Always exactly the same."
He looked directly into my eyes.
"I think he’s been watching this academy for longer than anyone realises."
A familiar voice interrupted us.
"That’s because he wasn’t watching the academy."
We turned sharply.
Detective Hale stood several metres away.
He looked exhausted.
His shirt sleeves were rolled up.
A file rested beneath his arm.
"I’ve been looking for you two."
Noah frowned.
"Detective?"
Hale held up the file.
"The journal wasn’t the only thing stolen."
My stomach tightened.
"What else disappeared?"
"The underground chamber."
For a moment...
Neither of us understood.
"What?"
"The hatch is still there."
"The warehouse is still there."
"But the tunnels..."
He looked genuinely shaken.
"...are gone."
Noah stared at him.
"Gone?"
"We went back this morning with engineers."
"They climbed down."
"There were only ten stone steps."
"At the bottom..."
He paused.
"...solid earth."
"No corridor."
"No Archive."
"No room where we found the journal."
"Nothing."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Detective Hale slowly opened the file.
Inside were photographs taken only hours apart.
The first showed the underground corridor exactly as we had seen it.
Stone walls.
Shelves.
The chamber.
The second...
Showed compacted soil.
Untouched.
As though nothing had ever been excavated.
Hale closed the file.
"I’ve spent twenty-three years chasing impossible cases."
He looked first at Noah.
Then at me.
"But this..."
He shook his head slowly.
"This isn’t someone hiding evidence."
His voice dropped almost to a whisper.
"It’s as though the evidence is rewriting the world after we’re finished looking at it."
Before any of us could answer...
My System appeared once more.
______
[Narrative Stability: 63%]
Historical Revision Detected.
Verified Fact Removed.
Please remember:
The Archive existed.
Memory persistence is now considered a story-critical function.
Failure to remember may permanently alter recorded history.
______
For the first time...
The System wasn’t giving me an objective.
It was asking me not to forget.