She turned back to me, her hand hovering over the door. “Do you think it’s serious?” she asked.
Before I could answer, the clinic’s intercom crackled, “…all staff, please be advised…security alert…the building is being evacuated due to an unknown threat.”
The words hung in the air, a sudden, inexplicable alarm.
She stared at me, the silence between us thickening. Then she whispered, “Are you…are you okay?”
My throat tightened. I wanted to say yes, but the answer felt distant, as if I were listening from a hallway outside my own body.
The lights flickered, casting jagged shadows across the linoleum floor. In the flicker, I caught a glimpse of a small, silver locket on the floor, half‑opened, its chain tangled.
She bent to pick it up, and as she did, a sudden, sharp ringtone erupted from her phone, displaying a name I hadn’t expected: “Jenna Miller.”
She stared at the screen, the color draining from her face, and then, without a word, she slipped the locket into her pocket and walked out, the door closing behind her with a decisive click.
And the clinic fell silent, the hum of the intercom the only sound left.
Section 3
The hallway smelled of disinfectant and a lingering hint of lavender from the waiting room’s candles. I stood there, half‑listening to the distant sirens outside, half‑lost in the echo of my own thoughts.
When I finally stepped into the elevator, the doors hissed shut, and the small panel lit up, indicating a delayed descent. The ride seemed unusually long, each floor’s stop punctuated by a brief, metallic clank.
My phone buzzed again, a text from an unknown number: “You need to see this. 09:14‑06‑2024.”
I opened the attachment—a grainy photo of a kitchen table, a half‑eaten plate of biscuits, and a handwritten note tucked underneath: “For the love of the music, love, J.” The signature was a loop I recognized.
Jenna Miller. The name sounded familiar; I’d met a Jenna at a charity gala years ago, a friend of the singer’s family, who had once whispered that Dolly’s mother had hidden a secret journal in a safe deposit box.
My mind scrambled. Was this a prank? A misplaced message? I tried calling the number, but it went straight to voicemail, a polite “You’ve reached the voicemail of…” and then dead silence.
When the elevator finally dinged, the doors opened to the basement level, where the clinic’s archives were stored. Rows of metal filing cabinets lined the walls, each drawer marked with dates and patient IDs.
I walked past the aisles, fingertips brushing the cold metal, feeling a pulse of anticipation. The air was stale, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead, casting a strobe‑like pattern across the paper folders.
At the far end, a solitary cabinet stood out—its label faded, the number smudged. I pulled it open, and inside, among the usual paperwork, lay a small, leather‑bound notebook, its pages yellowed with age.
I opened it cautiously. The first page bore a name in elegant script: “Dolores – 1976.” The following entries were dated, each a brief line of thought, a lyric, a memory.
“I feel the weight of the world in my chest,” one entry read, dated March 12. “The doctor says it’s just a cold, but I hear the cough in my bones.”
The dates matched the period when I first met her, when she was a rising star in Nashville, before the world knew her as Dolly.
My breath caught. This wasn’t just a journal; it was a personal diary, written in secret, never meant for anyone’s eyes.
Another entry, June 3, mentioned a “persistent ache in the side, like a stone pressed against my ribs.” She wrote, “I will not let this silence me.”
My mind spun. The cough, the weight loss, the ‘suspicious mass’—they all echoed the words in this notebook.
My phone buzzed again. This time it was a call from an unknown number. I answered, the line crackling.
“Doctor Hayes? This is… it’s me. I’m Jenna. I found something you need to see.”
She spoke quickly, breathless. “You need to look at the safe deposit box at the bank on 5th and Main. The key is in the locket you saw earlier. It’s not just a trinket.”
My heart hammered. I felt the weight of the locket in my pocket, its chain tangled, the silver tarnish cold against my skin.
I slipped the locket out, gently pried it open. Inside, a tiny brass key glinted, a perfect fit for a small lock.
Leaving the archives, I headed back to the clinic’s front desk. The intercom, which had been quiet, now blared an urgent announcement: “All non‑essential personnel, please evacuate immediately. This is not a drill.”
The building’s alarms shrieked, lights strobing red, a cacophony of panic filling the corridors.
I slipped through the throng, clutching the key, the journal, and my own racing thoughts. The exit doors swung open, and I stepped out into the bright morning, the streets already buzzing with emergency vehicles.
Across the street, a police cruiser pulled up, its siren wailing. An officer shouted, “Stay back! This is a biohazard containment.”
My mind flashed back to the note in the journal, the “cough in my bones.” The thought settled like a stone in my stomach.
In the chaos, a figure emerged from the crowd—a woman in a dark coat, her face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat. She moved toward me, hand extended, offering a small envelope.
“You need this,” she whispered, voice low, almost a growl.
Before I could respond, the officer’s voice boomed, “Everyone out now!” The crowd surged, pushing me backward.
I clutched the envelope, the key, the journal, and ran, the sounds of sirens and shouts echoing behind me.
Section 4
The city streets were a blur of flashing lights, crowds, and the distant wail of an ambulance. I ducked into an alley, the smell of rain on asphalt mingling with the metallic tang of fear.
Inside, the envelope lay on a cracked concrete slab, its paper damp from the drizzle. I tore it open, revealing a single photograph: a close‑up of a hospital room, a bedside monitor blinking a steady red line, a half‑filled water bottle, and a nameplate that read “Dolores Parton – 2024.”
