358. | Missax

I didn’t know what I was going to do tomorrow at 5:17. But for the first time in my life, I understood that not knowing was exactly the point.

A janitorial log from 2001. Room 14B, sub-basement three. “Found small notebook bound in black leather. Returned to shelf 358-M.” 358. Missax

The file was thin, but the metadata was wrong. Every page had been accessed—physically, by hand—at least once a decade, right up until 1995. After that, the logs stopped. But the folder itself was pristine, as if someone had kept a copy somewhere else and only returned this one for show. I didn’t know what I was going to do tomorrow at 5:17

She reached into my pocket—I hadn’t seen her hand move—and pulled out my access badge. Room 14B, sub-basement three

And then nothing for thirty years.

I walked to sub-basement three.