The Black File

Every city has places people avoid without knowing why. For me, it was the municipal

archive. I worked the night shift, alone, cataloging forgotten

records—missing persons, sealed investigations, documents no one had requested in

decades. The building was old, windowless, and always colder

inside than outside. The lights hummed softly, like they were struggling to stay awake with

me. One night, while sorting boxes, I noticed a file on my desk that

hadn’t been there before. It was black. No label. No barcode.

Inside was a single sheet of paper. My name. Below it, a date.