The Night Of The Fire

Celeste had always believed history left traces. Faint imprints of the past, waiting for the right hands to uncover them. But the Fairmont Theater wasn't just hinting at its past—it was begging for someone to listen.

And Celeste wasn't going to stop until she understood what really happened the night Evelyn died.

She sat in the dim office Adrian had cleared for their research, surrounded by old blueprints, news clippings, and her own scattered notes. Adrian, leaning against the desk, tapped a pen rhythmically against the wood.

"We need to look at the fire reports again," Celeste murmured, scanning an old article. "There were gaps in the investigation. Maybe something was overlooked."

Adrian rubbed his jaw. "We're assuming there even was an investigation. The Fairmont fire was ruled accidental. If anyone suspected foul play, they buried it fast."

Celeste met his gaze. "Which is exactly why we need to dig deeper."

Adrian exhaled. "You're going to make me charm someone at city records, aren't you?"

She smirked. "Think you can pull it off?"

He gave her a pointed look. "Please. I can make anyone bend the rules."

Celeste rolled her eyes but didn't argue. Adrian's ability to talk his way into—or out of—situations had already proven useful more than once.

But even as she teased him, unease coiled in her stomach.

She knew something had happened the night of the fire. She had felt it in the mezzanine, in the cold whispers that brushed against her skin.

And she wasn't leaving the Fairmont until she understood why Evelyn Harland had never left.

They arrived at City Hall that afternoon, Adrian taking the lead.

The records clerk, a woman in her sixties with silver hair and sharp eyes, gave him a sceptical glance as he leaned against the counter with an easy smile.

"Hi, Sylvia," he greeted, reading her nameplate. "I'm Adrian Hawthorne. My company's working on the Fairmont restoration, and we're hoping to get access to some old building reports."

Sylvia raised an eyebrow. "Public records are online. You don't need to be here for those."

Adrian's smile widened. "True. But we're looking for something specific—fire reports from 1948. We're hoping to make sure our restoration honours the building's full history."

Celeste barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes at how smooth he sounded.

Sylvia, unimpressed, crossed her arms. "Those records are archived. You'd need special permission."

Adrian's smile didn't falter. "Any chance we could take a look? I'd hate to overlook an important historical detail."

Sylvia studied him. Then, slowly, she sighed. "Fine. But if anyone asks, you didn't get them from me."

Celeste shot Adrian an impressed look. He just winked.

A few minutes later, they sat in a cramped records room, old files spread out between them.

Celeste flipped through a thick folder, her breath catching at the first document.

Incident Report: Fairmont Theater Fire – May 3, 1948

Cause: Accidental (Electrical Malfunction)

Fatalities: 1 (Evelyn Harland, age 25)

Celeste scanned further, looking for anything unusual. And then—

She froze.

Adrian leaned in. "What?"

She pointed to a name listed under witnesses.

Nathaniel Wren.

Adrian let out a low whistle. "He was there?"

Celeste's heart pounded. "He must have been one of the last people to see Evelyn alive."

And yet, the report barely mentioned him. No statements, no follow-up. Just a name in a list, like he had been just another bystander.

Celeste's fingers tightened on the paper.

"He was there," she murmured. "And days earlier, Evelyn had reported him to the police. And then… she died."

Adrian's expression darkened. "You think he killed her?"

Celeste didn't answer right away. "I think Evelyn was running from something that night. And I think Nathaniel Wren was part of whatever she was afraid of."

She scanned further.

Then—another detail.

The fire started in the mezzanine.

Celeste's stomach dropped.

That was where Evelyn had written about hiding. Where Celeste had felt the strongest presence.

Adrian read over her shoulder. "That's where you heard the whisper, isn't it?"

Celeste swallowed hard. "Yeah."

The mezzanine. The last place Evelyn had been. The place where she had died.

Adrian let out a breath. "So what now?"

Celeste closed the file carefully.

"Now," she said, voice steady, "we go back to the Fairmont."

Night had settled over Port Bellingham by the time they returned to the theatre.

Celeste stepped into the mezzanine, her pulse quickening. The air felt different tonight. Heavier. Charged.

Adrian followed close behind. "Alright, so what exactly are we looking for?"

Celeste wasn't sure. But she trusted her instincts.

She moved carefully, scanning the rows of old seats, the crumbling wallpaper, and the ornate railings that still held whispers of elegance beneath the decay.

Then—

A floorboard creaked beneath her foot.

Celeste froze.

It wasn't just loose. It shifted.

She crouched down, carefully prying at the edge. The wood gave way with a soft pop, revealing a small, dark space beneath.

Adrian knelt beside her. "A hidden compartment?"

Celeste reached in, fingers brushing against something cool.

She pulled it out.

A silver locket, tarnished with age.

Her breath caught.

She opened it.

Inside was a tiny, faded photograph. A woman with dark, wavy hair and wide, fearful eyes.

Evelyn.

And beside her—

A man.

Tall. Dark suit. Sharp features.

Nathaniel Wren.

Celeste's pulse pounded.

She turned the locket over, running her thumb across the back.

There, etched into the metal, was a single word.

Help.

The theatre seemed to exhale around her, the air growing thick with something unseen.

And then—

A whisper.

Soft. Urgent. Desperate.

"Find the truth."

The locket trembled in her palm.

Adrian swallowed. "Okay. I'm officially creeped out."

Celeste barely heard him.

Because she knew now.

Evelyn had hidden this locket. She had left behind a message.

And whatever had happened that night—whoever had started that fire—

Evelyn Harland had fought to make sure the truth wouldn't die with her.

Celeste curled her fingers around the locket, meeting Adrian's gaze.

"We're not done yet."