My fingers tighten on the book.
If she’d said museum, that would be one thing. But this? “How do you know that?”
A pause.
Just long enough. “I…”
Her smile deepens slightly. “…pay attention.”
The words are simple. Neutral. But something in the way she says them makes my stomach tighten.
He’s been talking about me and my research to her.
She rings up the almanac. Her hands are steady. Unhurried. There’s a faint scar along her left knuckle.
My ears ring. I saw that in the museum photo. Drew it in grayscale not more than an hour ago at the cafe.
Unmistakable.
Didn’t I?
No.
That’s impossible. Inexplicable.
And if there’s anything anthropology has taught me, it’s that nothing is ever truly without explanation.
Itcan’tbe.
I thank her and step back into the street. The bell above the door chimes again. The wind feels colder now. I don’t make it to the car before I pull out my phone.
I open the museum photo first.
M. Redfern, 1910
Then the one I just took.
Zoom.
Cheekbone height. Mandible angle. Intercanthal distance. Earlobe attachment. The ratios line up…
Exactly.
I feel fuzzy-headed by the time I reach the museum. Like this day has contained decades rather than hours.
Debbie greets me, asking where I’d like to start. She sets me up in the archive room, telling me she’ll be staying late tonight. No need to rush.
“Thank you.” The words sound far away, like they’re coming from somewhere else.
I should head out to the car and grab my to-go box before it bakes. But my stomach churns, so far away from eating, I can’t even palate the walk to the car.
Instead, I do the only thing I know how. I dive into research. Measurements, academic articles, old field note journals from the first archaeologists to document the glyphs.
I’m struck by the general lack of knowledge recorded about the site. Before I thought it was incompetence. Now I see it differently. As if the first researchers didn’t want anyone poking around.
I open my phone, staring at the photo. Then close it again, burying it in my purse and losing myself in the smell of archival materials, old papers, and cold air.
By the time I leave the museum, the sky streaks lavender and magenta. Swallows fly in a black murmur in the distance. Like one massive body.
