Curiosity, as it always did, pulled her across the city.
Marta, a freelance archivist with a habit for lost things, found it tucked inside a hollowed-out Soviet-era dictionary. She bought the book for a euro at the Centraltirgus flea market. The file was a single yellowed page, typed in a mix of Latvian and faded Cyrillic, listing names—nine of them—and that address. tvaikonu str. 5, lv1007, riga, latvia
"You came back. You always come back."
Marta tried to scream. No sound left her mouth. The waltz grew louder, faster, warping into a distorted military march. The nine cups rattled. The tea turned to rust. Curiosity, as it always did, pulled her across the city
Inside, the staircase spiraled upward, wrong. The steps were too shallow, the banister too cold, even for Riga in November. On the first landing, a single bare bulb flickered, casting shadows that didn't match the angles of the room. The walls were covered in layered wallpaper—1950s florals peeling over 1930s geometries, over something older: newspaper print in a language she almost recognized but couldn't read. The file was a single yellowed page, typed