Not This Time

Ivy works as an archivist in a museum where nothing is supposed to move without record, permission, or explanation. But some artifacts don't behave the way they should-objects that feel oddly familiar, as if they recognize her as much as she recognizes them.
When a recently cataloged long-barreled shotgun goes missing from secured storage, Ivy is the first to notice. Not because of procedure, but because something about it feels wrong in a way she can't justify. The museum insists there is no cause for concern. Ivy isn't so sure.
Her only ally is a coworker in the conservation department-calm, observant, and unsettlingly attuned to her instincts. He understands her reactions before she can explain them, meeting her certainty with his own quiet conviction that something in the archives is not as contained as it appears. Their connection is immediate, charged, and difficult to define, as if it began long before either of them chose to acknowledge it.
As Ivy digs deeper into the disappearance, she begins to notice fractures in her own memory-brief, intrusive impressions she cannot place. Meanwhile, the museum's carefully maintained order starts to feel less like protection and more like concealment.
Something is wrong in the collection.
Something is watching.
And whatever took the weapon may not be finished with her yet.
Because in a place built to preserve history, Ivy is beginning to suspect she is not just preserving it.
She is being pulled into it.