On a November evening thick with fog and the scent of dry rot, I stepped into the basement gallery of the Archangel Museum for the first time. A woman named Miriam handed me a brass key and a pair of white gloves, then vanished into the dark. Inside, rows of glass cases held objects I wasn't supposed to touch—until one caught my eye: a tarnished pocket-watch that ticked without hands, its face fogged from within. The security guard, dead-eyed and whispering, told me they found it in a woman's fist after she froze to death in a boiler room. Every detail of that night is sharp in my memory: the sound of my own breath, the weight of the watch in my palm, the way the glass case seemed to exhale when I approached. But what I can't shake—what brought me back—is the moment I held it, and the watch ticked faster, and I heard a woman's voice say my name.
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