There are moments in history that pass without announcement. No trumpets, no earthquakes. Just a door that opens and, behind it, an entirely different world. This was one of those moments, though nobody present understood that yet.

The archive room smelled of old paper and forgotten urgency. Filing cabinets stood in rows like silent witnesses, their labels faded to near-illegibility. He made his way to the third row, seventh cabinet. Inside: a manila folder, thin and brown at the edges. Inside the folder: a name.

He had not expected that. He had expected facts — dates, transactions, movements. Not a name he recognised.

Later, he would not be able to explain exactly what had shifted in that moment. Something had. He felt it the way you feel a change in atmospheric pressure before a storm — in the chest, behind the eyes. He gathered his things slowly. There was a great deal to do.