50:Voices in the Dark

Voices in the Dark

Ophelia remained perfectly still behind the overturned cabinet.

The abandoned Fine Arts Annex was silent once more.

Only the sound of rain tapping against the broken windows filled the room.

She waited.

One minute.

Two.

Three.

The footsteps above continued moving.

Whoever they were, they weren't in a hurry.

She carefully reached into her jacket and turned off the recorder.

The voices had become too faint to capture clearly.

She couldn't risk getting closer.

Not yet.

A loud thud echoed from upstairs.

Then another.

It sounded as though someone was moving heavy furniture.

Ophelia frowned.

"Why would anyone come back to a building abandoned for years?"

She slowly peeked around the cabinet.

The staircase leading to the second floor disappeared into darkness.

Her training told her to leave.

Her instincts told her to climb.

She trusted her instincts.

One careful step.

Then another.

Every wooden stair creaked beneath her weight.

Halfway up...

She stopped.

Fresh mud.

Someone had walked through here recently.

She knelt beside one footprint.

The sole pattern was expensive.

Not work boots.

Not students.

Leather dress shoes.

Someone with money had been here.

On the second floor...

The corridor stretched endlessly before her.

Old classroom doors hung crooked on broken hinges.

Paint peeled from the walls.

At the very end of the hallway...

One door stood slightly open.

A faint light escaped through the gap.

Ophelia approached silently.

She looked inside.

The room was empty.

Whoever had been there had already left.

But something had been forgotten.

A fountain pen.

Black lacquer.

Gold trim.

She slipped on a glove before picking it up.

The cap bore an engraved letter.

A.

No surname.

No company logo.

Just one letter.

She carefully sealed it inside an evidence bag.

Suddenly...

A car engine roared outside.

She hurried to the nearest window.

A black SUV pulled away from the rear of the building.

Its license plate was covered with mud.

She couldn't make out the numbers.

But she memorized the model.

The damaged rear bumper.

The missing right brake light.

Little details.

Little details solved big cases.

Back at her apartment...

Anonymous answered on the second ring.

"You went."

"I did."

"You found something."

"A pen."

Silence.

"A pen?"

"It may not sound important."

"It is."

Anonymous's voice became thoughtful.

"People leave fingerprints."

"They also leave habits."

He paused.

"Don't clean it."

"I wasn't planning to."

"Good."

"Bring it to our usual place tomorrow."

The next afternoon...

Ophelia arrived at a quiet botanical garden on the outskirts of the city.

She sat alone on a wooden bench.

Ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

A gardener pushing a wheelbarrow stopped nearby.

Without looking at her, he quietly said,

"You still arrive fifteen minutes early."

Ophelia smiled.

"And you still choose strange disguises."

The gardener chuckled.

"I have a reputation to maintain."

It was Anonymous.

He set the wheelbarrow aside and sat beside her as though they were two strangers enjoying the afternoon.

Without turning her head, Ophelia slipped the evidence bag into his gloved hand.

"I found this."

Anonymous examined the pen discreetly.

His expression didn't change.

But his eyes did.

"Interesting."

"You recognize it?"

"No."

He carefully returned it.

"But I recognize the craftsmanship."

He stood.

"I'll call you."

Just as quickly as he had appeared...

He walked away, pushing the wheelbarrow down the garden path.

To anyone watching...

They had never spoken at all.

Ophelia remained seated for another five minutes before quietly leaving in the opposite direction.

Neither of them noticed...

From across the lake...

A camera lens followed every movement.

Click.