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  Chapter 2: Sam Faeloc

  Sam Faeloc sat hunched at his desk, fingers tapping a pen against a stack of untouched reports. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow that drained the room of any warmth. Around him, the muffled hum of keyboards and the occasional cough filled the air like a monotonous symphony. It was another afternoon in an endless loop of afternoons; each one blurring into the next.

  The office was a maze of beige dividers and faded motivational posters, their slogans long stripped of meaning. Sam’s cubicle, though slightly more personalized than the others, betrayed a quiet yearning. A chipped figurine of a woolly mammoth stood sentinel on his desk, its tusks worn smooth from years of idle fidgeting. Beside it, a coffee mug emblazoned with Ancient Civilizations Club now served as a pen holder. The club had dissolved a decade ago, along with much of Sam's ambition.

  He leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the single window at the far end of the office. Outside, the city sprawled in muted grays, the skyline blurred by haze. His reflection stared back; thirty years old, dark circles under tired eyes, a perpetual furrow to his brow. Once-bright eyes dulled by routine and unmet dreams.

  That evening, Sam returned to a cluttered apartment that mirrored the disarray in his mind. The dim light of a desk lamp cast long shadows over shelves overflowing with books on archaeology and ancient history. Dusty replicas of arrowheads, fossils, and pottery fragments were strewn among them; remnants of a passion left to wither.

  He dropped his bag by the door and slumped onto a worn couch. Unopened mail littered the coffee table beside a half-empty bottle of whiskey. The television sat silent in the corner, its blank screen a reflection of his current state. Sam didn’t bother turning it on. The quiet suited him.

  Above the bookshelf hung a faded poster of an excavation site in Utah. Its curled corners and sun-bleached image spoke of better days; a college dig when dreams still felt within reach. Back then, he had imagined himself traveling the world, uncovering secrets buried in the earth. Now those dreams felt like artifacts themselves.

  He picked up a familiar book from the table: The Mystery of the Younger Dryas. Flipping through it absently, he felt the pull of old curiosity. The Younger Dryas had always fascinated him; an abrupt, enigmatic period of climate change that reshaped the Earth. But what once inspired wonder now only emphasized how far he'd drifted from that world.

  He closed the book and stared at the ceiling. “What happened to me?” he muttered.

  The question hung unanswered in the still air as he drifted into restless sleep; unaware that everything was about to change.

  The next day, Sam stepped off the bus into the city’s pulse; traffic, chatter, movement all around. People brushed past him, absorbed in their own lives, their expressions blank. He no longer tried to connect. Life had become a routine of silence, the world’s noise amplifying the hollowness inside him.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The museum appeared ahead, nestled between looming office towers. It looked forgotten; stone steps weathered by time, a wooden door faded and creaking on its hinges. A tarnished plaque read: The Natural History and Prehistory Museum. The words were nearly illegible, like a whisper from a past the city had long since ignored.

  Inside, the air smelled of old wood and dust. Dim lights flickered along walls lined with yellowed posters of extinct creatures and ancient ruins. The floor creaked beneath his steps, as if the building itself stirred at his presence.

  An elderly woman sat at the front desk, hunched over a crossword puzzle. She didn’t look up when he entered. Her hand moved methodically, the tip of her pencil scratching softly on the page.

  “Good afternoon,” Sam offered quietly.

  She gave a vague nod, eyes never leaving the puzzle.

  He wandered deeper into the museum, each step echoing in the empty space. Exhibits stood in quiet neglect; brittle placards, dusty cases, faded displays. Yet something stirred in Sam, a flicker of familiarity. This was the world he had once loved.

  He paused before a reconstructed saber-toothed cat skeleton, its massive fangs glinting in the dim light. It loomed like a ghost from another age, frozen mid-snarl. Sam studied its form; predatory, ancient, magnificent. The predators always fascinated him most. The saber-tooths. The dire wolves. The creatures that once ruled.

  Down another hallway, he found a display of stone tools; scrapers, blades, spearpoints. The placards were cracked and hard to read, but Sam didn’t need them. He knew what they were. These were the tools of survival. Of resilience. Of carving existence from a hostile world.

  His feet carried him onward, into a smaller, darker room. A worn placard read: The Mystery of the Younger Dryas. Sam’s pulse quickened.

  The room was sparsely furnished; just a few exhibits, and a map of the world during the Younger Dryas. He traced its ice-covered contours with a finger, imagining the cold, the upheaval, the shift in everything. He’d read every theory; comet strikes, volcanic eruptions, freshwater disruptions; but no definitive answers. Just mystery.

  Then he saw it.

  Tucked in the shadowy corner of the room, partially hidden from view, sat an orb about the size of a tennis ball. Unlike the other displays, it pulsed with something... different.

  Its surface was perfectly smooth, etched with delicate, shifting geometric patterns. Light caught on its curves and danced strangely, as if the carvings were in motion. Sam stepped closer, his breath shallow. He couldn’t look away.

  The placard next to it was unhelpful:

  “Unknown origin. Found at a remote dig site. Date and exact location of discovery unknown.”

  That was it.

  He leaned in. The carvings on the orb seemed to twist, rearrange, almost... respond to his gaze. A subtle hum filled the air. Not sound exactly; but sensation. The hair on his arms stood on end. His fingers ached to touch it.

  He glanced back. The receptionist was still buried in her puzzle.

  Slowly, as if compelled, he reached out and brushed the glass. Heat bloomed beneath his palm. The hum grew stronger, resonating in his bones. His heart pounded.

  He knew he shouldn’t. That this was wrong. But something deep inside him; older than reason; told him this orb was meant for him.

  His hand moved almost of its own accord. He opened the case.

  The orb was surprisingly light, almost weightless. And warm. It vibrated softly in his hand, like it had a pulse of its own.

  He slipped it under his jacket, hidden against his ribs. The warmth spread through him as he walked; slowly, deliberately; toward the exit.

  The receptionist didn’t look up.

  Outside, the sunlight hit him like a wave, but it felt muted. Dim. The orb’s presence was heavier now, its weight more than physical.

  As he moved through the city’s din, Sam couldn’t explain what he’d just done; or why. All he knew was that his life had shifted.