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“I think this calls for another visit to the Vault. What do you say?”

There’s a measure of expectation in his tone, likely stemming from the thrill that usually corresponds to selecting a piece from Arthur’s seemingly endless collection of treasures. But torn between utter exhaustion and my concerns over Killian’s sudden return, I can muster only a modest enthusiasm.

“Later then,” Arthur says, his voice so brusque I worry my lukewarm response might’ve offended him. “When you’re feeling up to it.”

I nod, about to rise from my seat, thankful to have gotten off so easily, when Arthur adds, “Oh, and by the way, have you seen Braxton?”

My body goes rigid, fingers clenching the armrests with a tension that speaks volumes. “Yes, I have,” I admit, my voice betraying me by sounding like a small, nervous child.

Arthur contemplates me with a long, considering look. “Such a strange series of misfortunes,” he muses, his voice cool and detached. He scans my face with an almost surgical precision. “First Braxton suffers a serious mishap that requires stitches. Then Killian sends you back earlier, accidentally leaving himself without a clicker. And now you’ve fallen under the weather.”

His gaze pins me in place, and it’s everything I can do not to visibly recoil.

“Not ill,” I’m quick to amend, the laugh that follows sounding forced, if not feeble. “Just a bit sleep-deprived.”

He regards me with an inscrutable look, making it impossible to guess what he might be thinking beneath that impenetrable facade. “Well then,” he finally says, “I trust you and Braxton will recover soon. I’ve grown rather accustomed to relying on you both.”

My lips press into a thin, grim line. Determined not to fidget, I respond with a simple nod.

“However, before I let you go,” he continues, “I would appreciate your insights on a matter.”

I watch as Arthur stands and gracefully circles his desk, motioning for me to follow him to an easel shrouded by a plain white cloth.

“It’s an enigmatic piece,” he says. “One that scholars have debated for centuries.”

“And you think I have something to contribute?” A hint of incredulity creeps into my voice.

“I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t confident,” he replies. “I believe there’s value to be had in an open and eager mind, one free of all preconceptions or expectations. It’s akin to what Shunryu Suzuki said,In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert’s there are few.”

Shunryu Suzuki?My jaw practically drops to the floor.Isn’t that the same Zen master my dad quoted to me?

“If your mind is empty,” I say, repeating what my dad recently said, “it is open to everything.”

I stare at Arthur, a strange sense of déjà vu, or even déjà vécu, swirling within, leaving me feeling lightheaded, woozy, unsteady on my feet.

“Yes,” Arthur says, studying me with an inscrutable gaze. “It seems you’re familiar with the concept and its author.”

I give an uneasy shrug. At this moment, it’s all I can manage. Then, with a fluid gesture, Arthur unveils the artwork, leaving me gaping at the sight.

“Melencolia 1,” I whisper, not realizing I’ve spoken aloud until Arthur’s attention sharpens on me.

“So, you know it?” His gaze penetrates so deeply into my flesh, it feels like an anchor dragging me into depths I’ll never escape.

“Yeah, um…I mean, yes,” I manage to say. “I’m…familiar with it.”

What I don’t say is how I came to be familiar with it—because my dad showed it to me on my illicit visit to 1998.

Everything is connected, my dad explained.There’s no such thing as mere coincidence. Everything that’s happened on your path has led you right here.

A swarm of chills blankets my skin, and as I dare to meet Arthur’s gaze, I’m struck by the unsettling realization that he not only knows where I’ve been, but also what I intend to do next.

19

“So, first impressions,” Arthur prompts, leaning slightly forward, an air of genuine curiosity shaping his tone. He gestures toward the mysterious engraving on the easel before me.

Feeling a lump beginning to form in my throat, I take a moment to gather my thoughts. “Well, the first thing that strikes me is the angel,” I say, my voice steadier than I currently feel. Casually, I tuck my hands into the front pockets of my jeans, hoping to hide any signs of shaking or nervousness.

“Care to elaborate?” Arthur’s scrutiny intensifies, a careful balance of skepticism and intrigue as his eyes lift from the artwork to me.