Echoes Of The Past

Celeste barely slept that night.

She tried to tell herself it was because of the sheer amount of work ahead—permits, material sourcing, hiring experts—but deep down, she knew the truth. It was the journal.

And the whispering.

She had read through the woman's words again before leaving the Fairmont, searching for clues. The pages carried a kind of sorrow she could feel in her bones, a longing that hadn't faded even after decades. She'll come for me.

Who was she?

And why did Celeste have the unsettling feeling that whoever wrote those words had never left?

By the time the sun rose, Celeste had abandoned sleep altogether. She threw herself into research, scouring historical archives and old newspaper clippings. If there had been a woman lost in the Fairmont fire, she needed to know who.

After two hours and three cups of coffee, she found something.

An old article from The Port Bellingham Gazette, dated May 4, 1948.

TRAGEDY AT FAIRMONT THEATER: BLAZE CLAIMS THREE LIVES

Late last night, a fire broke out during a screening of Casablanca at the Fairmont Theater, claiming the lives of three patrons and injuring several others. Fire officials report that the blaze originated near the stage, though the exact cause remains unknown.

Celeste's heart pounded as she read on.

Among those confirmed lost was local schoolteacher Evelyn Harland, age 29. Witnesses claim Miss Harland was last seen in the mezzanine, seemingly unaware of the fire until it was too late. Efforts to locate her were unsuccessful, and authorities believe she was overcome by smoke before she could escape.

She swallowed. Evelyn Harland.

It had to be her.

The way the journal spoke of waiting, of refusing to leave—had Evelyn been expecting someone? Someone who never arrived?

Celeste stared at the grainy black-and-white photo that accompanied the article. Evelyn was young and beautiful in a quiet, old Hollywood way. Dark curls pinned neatly, a soft smile, eyes that held a hint of sadness even in still imagery.

A shiver ran through her.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Maybe it was the weight of history pressing down on her.

Either way, she knew one thing for certain.

Evelyn Harland was still waiting.

Celeste arrived at the Fairmont earlier than usual, stepping inside before most of the workers had even shown up. The theatre was silent, save for the faint creaks of the old building settling.

She headed straight for the mezzanine.

The seat Evelyn had mentioned in her journal—the one she had waited in—was still there, albeit covered in dust and time-worn fabric. Celeste ran her fingers along the armrest, imagining the woman sitting here all those years ago, lost in the glow of the film, waiting for someone who never came.

"Evelyn," Celeste murmured.

A whisper of cold air curled around her.

Celeste's pulse jumped. She turned, scanning the empty theatre. Nothing.

She was being ridiculous.

But still—

"Who were you waiting for?" she asked, her voice barely above a breath.

Silence.

Then, just as she turned to leave—

A flicker.

The grand chandelier above her swayed, the dim work lights flickering once, twice.

Celeste's throat went dry.

She wasn't alone.

"Do you always look this haunted in the mornings?"

Celeste jumped as Adrian's voice broke through her thoughts. She turned to find him standing at the bottom of the mezzanine stairs, watching her with that familiar smirk.

She exhaled sharply. "Jesus. Could you stop sneaking up on me?"

He held up his hands in mock innocence. "Not my fault you're easily spooked."

Celeste debated throwing something at him, then decided against it.

Instead, she motioned for him to follow her. "I found something."

Adrian's expression shifted, his usual teasing replaced by mild curiosity. "About the journal?"

She nodded. "Come on. I'll show you."

They ended up in one of the small side offices Adrian had converted into a workspace for the project team. Celeste spread out her research across the table—the newspaper article, a few old photographs, and the journal itself.

Adrian frowned as he scanned the materials. "Evelyn Harland. She was one of the people who died in the fire?"

Celeste nodded. "I think she wrote this journal." She tapped the leather-bound book. "She kept talking about waiting for someone. She never left because she believed they were still coming for her."

Adrian leaned against the table, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "And you think that… what? She's still here?"

Celeste hesitated. She wanted to deny it, to call the flickering lights and cold air coincidences. But she couldn't shake the feeling that Evelyn's story wasn't over.

Instead of answering, she asked, "Do you believe in ghosts?"

Adrian chuckled. "Would it ruin my reputation if I said maybe?"

Celeste blinked. She hadn't expected that.

He shrugged. "I don't know if I believe in spirits or unfinished business or whatever you're thinking. But I do believe places hold memories. This theatre has seen a lot, and maybe some of it lingers."

Celeste considered his words.

Places hold memories.

Maybe that was it. Maybe Evelyn wasn't a ghost in the traditional sense. Maybe she was just a lingering presence, an imprint of grief and waiting.

Or maybe—

Celeste's gaze landed on the final journal entry.

He'll come for me. I know he will.

"What if she's still waiting for whoever she was supposed to meet that night?" she murmured.

Adrian frowned. "You think she needs closure?"

Celeste glanced at him. "I think we need to find out who she was waiting for."

Adrian exhaled. "Great. Because what this project really needed was a mystery."

Celeste smirked. "I thought you liked a challenge."

"I do. But I prefer the kind that doesn't involve ghosts."

Celeste laughed, the first real one she'd had in days.

But as she packed up her research, she couldn't shake the feeling that Evelyn Harland was still listening.

And that, after all these years, she wasn't ready to be forgotten.