COUNTDOWN

...

“I regret to inform you, sir, but we’re unable to open it” declared Nicolas Rive, a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, his voice dripping with confidence.

Before him stood what appeared to be a metallic crate, about the size of a substantial trunk, labeled as “object 1943/19,” remaining immobile and still sealed.

Richard Thompson, the current head of internal affairs and former US Navy marshal, displayed clear irritation at the news. Was it possible that no one knew how to open it? After all, it was just a blasted crate, not the vault of Fort Knox.

“With your permission, sir, I’ll bring the girl in”

Thompson cast a pointed look at his subordinates. Had they exhausted all options? Couldn’t they explore other avenues? Must they really turn to “her” for help?

Nicolas Rive had nothing more to offer. All attempts to force open that object had been in vain, despite the measures employed and the energies expended.It had come to the point where they had to seek help from the one who knew.

Indeed, the girl held the answers. But what, precisely, did she know?

This ambiguity lingered among the gathered individuals. In particular, Charles Grams, the CEO of FutureTech, voiced his skepticism: “Are we seriously entrusting a significant discovery to an unknown young lady?”

Summoned discreetly the day before, the girl had been picked up rather unceremoniously, flown to FBI headquarters, and left waiting in a sparsely furnished room with only a desk and chairs.

How long had she been seated there? The room, devoid of windows and illuminated by harsh LED lights, had distorted her sense of time. Her phone, confiscated upon entry, was now inaccessible, leaving her without any way to gauge the passing hours.

A persistent suspicion nagged at her mind that this predicament was somehow connected to her recent assignment. Delving into Jules Verne’s diary had been a captivating endeavor, and she had openly shared all her discoveries. Regrettably, the same transparency did not extend to the peculiar bracelet she stumbled upon alongside the writings. Trying it on for fun, she soon realized it wouldn’t come off. She kept mum about the bracelet, sharing the secret with no one.

Yet, a persistent though remained in the back of her mind – could someone have been aware of it all?

The girl adjusted in her chair, pulling her sweater sleeves over her wrists. It would have been wise to avoid inviting awkward questions, she pondered.

At last, the door swung open, and she was ushered out. Escorted by four men in camouflage suits, she was brought before Mr. Thompson and colleagues who had been waiting for her.

After a brief introduction, agent Nicolas Rive got straight to the point:

“We need your expertise, miss. But understand, everything discussed in this room is strictly confidential.”

The girl nodded subtly, acknowledging the gravity of the situation.

“What is it that you need from me?” she inquired.

Pointing at the metallic crate, Mr. Thompson said “It once belonged to Jules Verne. Tell us what we’re dealing with.”

The woman studied the crate intently. Could it be...?

“You can approach it if you want” agent Nicolas Rive assured her. “You’re authorized to examine it up close.”

Without hesitation, she moved toward the mysterious crate.

She hadn’t even covered a few meters when she was grabbed by the arm and stopped.

“Don’t be in such a hurry, mademoiselle” Charles Grams said. ”Look all you want, but remember, no touching, understood?”

The girl offered no response. An inexplicable pull towards the shiny crate overrode any external warnings. She effortlessly evaded the grip and found herself unintentionally standing right next to the object. Extending her hands towards the metallic surface – to the amazement of all present – she seamlessly plunged her fingers into it, as if met with water rather than solid metal. On the side, letters emerged.

“E-L-I-N-O-R” Charles Grams uttered slowly, his eyes widened. Glancing at the others, he questioned “Who on earth is Elinor?”

“It’s me” the girl confirmed. “I have been remembered, a whisper in the corridors of memory...”

But this, my friends, marks the beginning of another adventure...

***

Olivia Russell flicked the final page with a sense of satisfaction.

“THE END.”

“Brilliant, Elinor! This novel is an absolute delight! Well done!” She ignited a cigarette, inhaling deeply. “It holds promise, doesn’t it? The discovery of Verne’s diaries is enthralling. I devoured it in one sitting. And the ending—it’s not an end, but the beginning of the next chapter, isn’t it?”

Elinor Miller nodded with a subtle smile, pleased that Olivia relished the book she had crafted.

“Have you begun working on it?” Olivia inquired.

“The sequel, you mean?”

“Yes... What lies within the mysterious crate? Now, I’m the curious one.”

“I haven’t written anything yet. I need a week’s break, Olivia. But the plot is taking shape in my mind—broad strokes, including the secrets within the crate. Yet, I want to keep you in suspense for a little while longer.”

“Excellent, stay on top of it, remember. It’s crucial. You must amaze me. Put something in there that isn’t the usual worn-out cliché. For example, the idea of revealing the protagonist’s name only on the last page is brilliant, dear” another puff of smoke followed. “But...” she continued, narrowing her eyes to a slit “Don’t you think you’re a bit... how should I put it...egocentric?”

Elinor looked at her quizzically. “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

“Why not name the protagonistOlivia? I’m just giving an example.Elinorsounds a bit old, stale, don’t you think?”

“BecauseOliviahas nothing to do with Jules Verne. I don’t think I can use it without creating a contrived story. WhereasElinoris the name of the daughter of...

“Hold on, miss ‘I-know-it-all.’ Always have an answer ready, you, the budding writer.” Olivia Russell took another drag from her cigarette. “I’ll see how to sellthisthing to my publisher, and I’ll let you know” she concluded, pointing at the manuscript on the table.

“Do you think it will be accepted? I’ve worked on it for a good three months, and now I have to... uh... pay...” Elinor was embarrassed. She said the word ‘pay’ as if it were an obscenity. She was never good when it came to discussing money.

“Stop! Don’t say another word. Am I not Olivia Russell, the best-selling author? Look at me” Olivia approached the girl. “See this pretty face of mine? This is what sells, not your writings. Don’t get ahead of yourself, understood?”

“Of course, Olivia, I don’t doubt it. I know that without you, I wouldn’t be able to accomplish anything. I remember perfectly well that I owe you. If it weren’t for you...”

“Exactly. But...? Do you have anything else to add?”

“No ‘buts,’ Olivia. You do your part, I know.”

“The hardest part, remember that. Who knocks on the doors of these editors? Who puts themselves out there? Who can convince them? It’s not as easy as you think. They don’t just ask me, ‘Olivia, do you have a new novel to publish?’ No, sir! I have to earn my bread, ME. I don’t do it like you, peacefully sitting in your room writing for three months. No one stressing you, no one asking you to attend events or openings. Do you think I like sitting there, signing autographs in some random bookstore and smiling at strangers? Do you think I like always having to be perfect to match the ideal readers have of me? There are hours and hours of work behind it: hairdressers, beauticians, gyms, my dear. Do you see the bills I have to pay for makeup and clothes? No! Have I ever made you feel that burden? No! I am like this: generous, generous, generous...”

Elinor knew perfectly well that Olivia Russell had what she didn’t: a beautiful presence and a lot of audacity. Olivia could go to a publisher and place whatever she wanted without any problem. She, on the other hand, couldn’t. She had tried once, and it had been a disaster.

Thus, they came to a deal: Olivia played the official writer while Elinor was the one actually writing the novels.

One can’t have everything in life, Elinor reminded often herself to give reason to it all.

“Are you listening, young lady?” Olivia interrupted at one point, seeing that Elinor seemed lost in her thoughts.

“Yes, yes... of course, sorry.” That was how Elinor was. She would never contradict Olivia, who, after all, was a bestselling author and much loved by the public.

“Rest up, dear. We understand each other. And don’t relax on your laurels. Remember that now I’ll have to sweat blood to get an editor to read our manuscript. Don’t let me do all the work alone.”

“Of course, Olivia” Elinor replied, feeling almost guilty for blurting out the need for a week off. “I’ll try to start writing again, maybe even tomorrow.”

“That’s how I like you! We’re a team, you and I, right?”

“Right...”

“Now I’m going, dear. I see that I’ve received a message that I need to respond to right away.” Olivia put on her coat and grabbed her bag. “Don’t be lazy, I beg you!”

She quickly left the pastry shop where she and Elinor had arranged to meet. She took out her phone and opened the messaging app. There were twelve unread messages, all from the same person: Charles Gondall – Publisher. The last one read:

Get in touch, Olivia. I’m waiting for your new novel. It has to be in bookstores in two weeks. Don’t make me wait any longer. We’ll send it straight to print. You know I have blind trust in you. Call me!

***

Thank you, readers! Your support is invaluable. Stay tuned for weekly updates every Thursday, unless specified otherwise. I eagerly await your feedback on this journey together!