The Midnight Post

No one knew who started The Midnight Post. It appeared suddenly one night on everyone's
phone as a notification, as if it had always been there. A sleek, black icon with a faint image of
an owl and the tagline: “We know what you’ve been hiding.”

Most people brushed it off as some prank app. But for those who dared to open it, they found
something entirely different. The app revealed secrets, one at a time, about the people in the
small town of Fairhaven. They weren’t just rumors, either—they were precise, specific, things
that no one else could have known.

It began with harmless secrets, like exposing who had stolen Mrs. Leary’s garden gnome or
which students had skipped class to hang out by the river. But each night at exactly midnight, a
new post would appear, and the secrets grew darker. Soon, people found themselves dreading
the stroke of twelve, fearing what would be revealed next.

Lucy Grant was one of the few people who hadn’t downloaded The Midnight Post. She figured
she had nothing to hide—her life was simple. She worked at the Fairhaven library, helped her
mother with groceries on Saturdays, and spent her evenings reading on her porch. If the app
wanted to reveal that she’d once cheated on a spelling test in fifth grade, she was fine with that.

But then, one night, she woke up to find her phone glowing on her nightstand. There it was: The
Midnight Post, installed on her screen even though she had never downloaded it. Her pulse
quickened as she stared at it, fingers hovering over the icon.

Against her better judgment, she opened it. A single post flashed on the screen, written in the
app’s usual stark black and white text:

"Lucy Grant: You’ve been hiding something that even you don’t remember. Seek the truth in
Room 104."

She froze. Room 104 was in the library basement, a storage room that hadn’t been used in
years, mostly because no one liked going down there. It was dim and dusty, filled with forgotten
artifacts and abandoned projects from the town’s past. Even the janitor avoided it, claiming the
lights never worked quite right.

Her curiosity burned, despite the chill running down her spine. What could she have forgotten?
She thought back through her life, but nothing came to mind. She had always assumed she
knew herself better than anyone—she’d never taken risks, never been reckless. She was the
kind of person who remembered every appointment, every task, every person she’d ever met.

The next morning, Lucy arrived at the library early, long before anyone else. The place was
quiet, the morning sun barely filtering through the windows. With a deep breath, she made her
way down the winding staircase to the basement, her footsteps echoing off the cold stone walls.
Room 104 sat at the end of a narrow, dim hallway. Its door was thick and heavy, the kind of door
that creaked with a sound that could make your skin crawl. She reached for the handle, pausing
for a moment. Was this really worth it? She could just walk away, ignore the post, and pretend
she’d never seen it.

But something inside her compelled her to open the door.

The room was cold and filled with rows of metal shelves, each covered in a thin layer of dust.
Boxes were stacked in every corner, some marked with faded labels, others anonymous and
unassuming. She stepped inside, her eyes scanning the shelves for anything that stood out.

In the back corner, on the lowest shelf, she spotted a small, weathered box labeled in faded ink:
Lucy Grant – Archive.

Her breath caught. Why was there a file on her? She couldn’t remember ever leaving anything
important here. She knelt down and opened the box, her hands trembling slightly. Inside was a
bundle of old photos, some faded letters, and a small, delicate silver bracelet with her name
engraved on it.

She didn’t recognize the bracelet or the photos—images of her as a young child with a woman
she didn’t recognize. The woman was tall, with striking blue eyes, and in every photo, she
looked down at Lucy with a warmth that was unmistakable. Flipping through the photos, Lucy’s
heart pounded as she began to realize the truth: the woman wasn’t her mother, at least not the
mother she’d grown up with.