Familiar Strangers

Zara sat at the edge of her bed, the dim glow of her bedside lamp casting long shadows on the walls. She couldn't shake the nagging feeling. Something about Mr. Walsh—his mannerisms, the way he spoke—felt eerily familiar. Her brain scrambled to piece together the fragments of memory.

It hit her like a bolt of lightning.

The man who had visited her mother shortly after her father's death—the one who whispered in hushed tones behind closed doors—had the same piercing eyes, the same subtle English accent. She hadn't thought much of it then, grieving as she was. But now, as she sat clutching the edges of her blanket, her heart raced.

Could it be him?

Zara flipped through her journal, where she had jotted down fragments of that night in an attempt to make sense of the chaos. "A man in a dark coat, serious tone. Mom looked pale after he left."

Her stomach churned. Why hadn't she asked her mom more questions back then? And why, now of all times, had Mr. Walsh re-entered her life?

The next day at school, Zara couldn't focus. Her math teacher's voice droned on, but her mind replayed every interaction she'd had with Mr. Walsh. By the time lunch rolled around, she was desperate for answers.

Mia, perceptive as ever, noticed Zara's distracted demeanor. "Earth to Zara. You've been poking at your pasta like it's going to confess its secrets. What's up?"

Zara hesitated. Should she confide in Mia? It wasn't just about her anymore—it was about protecting everyone she cared about. Still, the weight of the mystery was too much to carry alone.

"Mia," Zara began, her voice barely above a whisper. "You remember that guy I told you about? The one who's been helping me figure out the artifact stuff?"

Mia raised an eyebrow, nodding. "Walsh, right? What about him?"

"I think I've seen him before," Zara said, her hands trembling slightly. "At my house. After my dad died."

That evening, Zara couldn't take it anymore. She needed answers. Mustering her courage, she decided to confront Mr. Walsh directly.

She waited until the library was almost empty, the silence amplifying the pounding of her heart. As she approached his usual spot near the archives, he glanced up, his expression unreadable.

"Zara," he greeted her, his voice calm but with a hint of curiosity. "What brings you here at this hour?"

Zara took a deep breath. "You've been helping me figure out what to do with these artifacts. You've been guiding me through all this... insanity. But I need to know—why were you at my house after my dad died?"

For the first time, Mr. Walsh's calm exterior wavered. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he leaned back in his chair, as if weighing his words carefully.

"Your father and I... we were colleagues of sorts," he said finally. "I came to speak with your mother because I feared she and you might be in danger. Your father's work, Zara—it was more complicated than you realize."

"Complicated how?" Zara demanded, her voice rising. "Why didn't my mom tell me? Why are you only showing up now?"

Mr. Walsh's gaze softened. "Because your father left a legacy. A responsibility. And whether you like it or not, it's fallen to you."