The Old Bell Tower sat on the far eastern edge of campus, strangled by ivy and ignored by the modern glass-and-steel expansions of Oakridge University. A "DANGER: DO NOT ENTER" sign hung limply from a rusted chain-link fence.
"You're sure about this?" Chloe whispered, her heavy camera bag thumping against her hip. "If the campus security catches us, my journalism career ends before I even get to write an obituary."
Liam didn't look back. He was busy examining the padlock with the intensity of a surgeon. "Security does their rounds at 4:30 PM. It's 4:38. We have exactly ninety minutes of 'safe' light." He pulled a small multi-tool from his pocket. With a practiced flick of his wrist and a metallic thunk, the chain went slack.
"Where did an architecture major learn to pick locks?" Chloe asked, stepping through the gap he'd created.
"Model making requires precision," Liam said, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "And sometimes, the best views are behind locked doors."
The interior of the tower smelled of damp stone and a century of trapped dust. Dust motes danced in the singular shafts of light piercing through narrow slit windows. Liam immediately went to the base of the central pillar, running his hand over the masonry.
"Look at this," he murmured, more to himself than her. "Hand-cut limestone. They don't build like this anymore. It's not just holding up a roof; it's holding up history."
Chloe wasn't looking at the stone. She was looking at Liam. In the dim, golden light, the sharp lines of his jaw seemed softer. He looked less like a stressed-out student and more like a man who truly belonged in another era.
"Hey, check this out," Chloe said, her reporter instincts kicking in. She had wandered toward a wooden floorboard that looked slightly raised near the western wall. She nudged it with the toe of her boot. It didn't just creak; it shifted.
Liam joined her, kneeling. Together, they pried the rotted wood upward.
Expectations of a time capsule or a hidden treasure were high, but what they found was a small, leather-bound satchel, cracked with age. Inside were three envelopes, the paper yellowed to the color of old parchment.
"Letters," Chloe breathed, her fingers hovering over the delicate paper. "Dated 1954."