The Glass Curator

The crystal hit the marble floor with a sound like a struck bell, and I froze mid-step in the gallery's hush. It had rolled from the velvet cushion of the new exhibit—a piece I'd curated for Lady Voss, her daughter's first birthday rendered in swirls of amber and rose. But this shard was different. Unlabeled. Wrong.

I knelt, and the jagged edge caught the candlelight. Inside, a tiny scene flickered: a girl of seven, laughing in a sunlit orchard, a scarred wooden swing behind her. Her face was mine. The same sharp chin, the same reckless tilt of the head. A memory I had never owned.

My hands trembled as I cupped the shard, and the cold bit deep. I knew every crystal in this gallery—I'd shaped them all. But this one had been hidden, buried beneath the floorboards of my own workshop, wrapped in oilcloth and sealed with black wax. The stamp on the seal was the Archivist's.

Footsteps echoed from the corridor. Silas's voice, smooth as poured honey: "You found it, then. I wondered how long you'd take."

I rose, the shard burning in my palm. The truth was not modest. It was not real. And someone had spent years making sure I never knew.