The old man in the corner of the diner had a habit. Every Tuesday at 3:17 PM, he would order black coffee and sit by the window, staring at the same patch of sky for exactly ten minutes before leaving without saying a word. No one knew his name, no one knew where he came from, and no one dared to ask. The waitress, a woman with tired eyes and a name tag that read "Maggie," would just nod and place the coffee on the table as if it were an unspoken ritual. One Tuesday, a young journalist named Clara sat across from him, notebook open, pen poised. She had been following the man for weeks, intrigued by his routine. He was in his sixties, with a face like weathered parchment and eyes that seemed to hold secrets too heavy for this world. When he finally left, she followed him into the cold afternoon air, her breath visible in the frosty air. He walked slowly, hands in his coat pockets, down the main street of the sleepy town of Eldridge Hollow. The buildings were old, their facades cracked and peeling, as if time itself had forgotten to care. A few townspeople glanced up from their chores, but none stopped. It was as though they had seen this before. Clara kept her distance, watching as the man entered a small, unmarked building tucked between a shuttered bakery and a boarded-up library. The sign above the door read "Eldridge Research Institute" in faded letters. She hesitated, then stepped inside. The interior was dimly lit, filled with the scent of dust and old paper. Rows of filing cabinets lined the walls, each labeled with numbers and dates that made no sense. A single desk sat in the center, covered in yellowed documents and half-finished notes. A flickering overhead light cast long shadows across the floor. A voice behind her startled her. "You shouldn't be here." She turned to see a woman in her fifties, dressed in a lab coat, her hair pulled back tightly. Her eyes were sharp, assessing. "Who are you?" Clara asked. "I'm Dr. Eliza Voss," the woman said. "And you're not supposed to be here. This place is closed." "But I saw the man—" "Mr. Hargrove," Eliza interrupted. "He's been coming here for years. He used to work here, before the government shut it down." Clara frowned. "Government?" Eliza nodded. "This was once a research facility. They studied things… things that don’t fit into normal science. Telepathy, time anomalies, even something called 'the echo effect'—a phenomenon where people could hear voices from the past." Clara’s heart pounded. "What happened to them?" "They didn't want to know," Eliza said quietly. "They closed the place down, erased all records, and scattered the researchers. But some of us stayed. We couldn’t forget." She led Clara to a locked cabinet and handed her a key. "Take this. Open it only when you're ready. What you find might change your mind about what's real." Clara returned to the diner that night, the key clutched tightly in her hand. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the man in the corner had known she was coming. That he had been waiting for her. When she opened the cabinet, she found a series of journals, each dated decades apart. The entries spoke of strange occurrences—voices in the wind, lights in the sky, and a recurring symbol that appeared in multiple locations across the country. One entry caught her eye: "The government knows. They’ve always known. But they’re afraid to admit it." As she read, the power went out. The room plunged into darkness, and the sound of footsteps echoed from the other side of the door. She froze, heart racing, as the faint whisper of a voice drifted through the silence. "Stay away from the truth."