She stared at the text, then at the ancient warning on the page before her. Was she already following Khenti's path? The very act of researching these prophecies felt like the beginning of the obsession the texts described.
But she needed to know more. In Dr. Thorne's posthumously published journal, she found a passage that made her heart race:
The serpent smoke phenomenon appears to manifest during periods of intense electromagnetic activity around certain artifacts. My preliminary research suggests that individuals with heightened sensitivity to these fields may experience what can only be described as temporal displacement—brief glimpses into probability streams rather than fixed futures. The danger lies not in the visions themselves, but in wanting to understand more about them so that the receiver can control the outcome. If you are reading this and have seen visions given by the cobra, don’t overthink the visions, live your life with those who love you, not what ifs, or all that will be left will be the what ifs. If you lose the one that your heart calls to, another path that you didn’t foresee.
The words on the page seemed to burn into her retinas. Dr. Thorne had experienced the visions too—had to have, to write with such specific warning. Shantali flipped through the journal frantically, looking for more details about Thorne's own encounter, but found only clinical observations and theoretical frameworks until the very last entry, dated just three days before the professor's death:
*I saw myself alone in my office, surrounded by research that no longer mattered. The cobra showed me the cost of choosing knowledge over love. I pray whoever reads this will be wiser than I was.*
Shantali's hands trembled as she closed the journal. Her phone buzzed again—David, probably wondering why she hadn't responded. The weight of his unanswered messages felt heavier now, loaded with the possibility that her silence was already setting the prophecy in motion.
She gathered the books and headed for the checkout desk, mind racing. Tonight was Thursday—her shift, her chance to see the cobra again and demand clearer answers. But Dr. Thorne's warning echoed in her head: the more you seek to understand, the more you lose what matters most.
The librarian looked up as Shantali approached with her stack of books. "Find what you were looking for?"
"More than I bargained for," Shantali muttered, then caught herself. "I mean, yes. Very helpful."
"Dr. Thorne's work in particular tends to have that effect on people." The woman's eyes held a knowing glint as she scanned the books. "She was brilliant, but she paid a price for her obsessions. Died alone in that office of hers, surrounded by research on things that probably should have been left alone."
Shantali's blood chilled. "She died in her office?"
"Heart attack, they said. But those of us who knew her... well, she'd been different those last few months. Distracted, paranoid, almost. Kept talking about patterns in smoke and electromagnetic readings." The librarian stamped the due date on the last book. "These are due back in two weeks, but honestly? I'd recommend you don't spend too long with them."
Walking back to her car, Shantali felt the books' weight like stones in her bag. Her phone showed four more messages from David, each one more concerned than the last. She should call him and explain something. But what could she say that wouldn't sound insane?
Instead, she drove home and spent the afternoon poring over the texts, making notes, cross-referencing accounts. Every story followed the same pattern: vision, obsession, loss. The cobra always showed true futures, but the act of pursuing those visions with too much intensity invariably led to their destruction.
As evening approached and time for her shift drew near, Shantali found herself standing before her bathroom mirror again, practising what she might say to the cobra if it appeared. But even as she rehearsed questions about timing and meaning, Dr. Thorne's words haunted her: *live your life with those who love you, not what ifs.*
Her phone rang, startling her from her reflection. David's name appeared on the screen, and she answered after a moment's hesitation.
"Tali? Thank God. I've been worried sick." His voice carried a relief that made her chest ache. "You haven't answered any of my texts."
"I'm sorry, I was... researching something."
"Researching what? You sound exhausted."
She closed her eyes, torn between the truth and the lie that would keep him safe from her spiralling obsession. "Just some historical stuff for work. Egyptian artifacts."
"Since when have you been researching Egyptian artifacts?" His tone grew gentler, more concerned. "Tali, whatever happened last night in the museum, we can figure it out together. You don't have to carry this alone."
The sincerity in his voice nearly broke her resolve. She could picture him in his apartment, probably pacing the way he did when he was worried, running his hand through his dark hair. The image overlaid with her vision of the hospital corridor, the two of them arguing about something she couldn't yet understand.
"I'm fine, David. Really."
"No, you're not." He paused, and she heard him take a deep breath. "Look, I know we agreed to wait until tomorrow night, but I can't stand this distance between us. Can I come over? We need to talk."
Her heart hammered. "I have to work tonight."
"Then after your shift. I'll wait up."
"David—"
"I love you, Tali. Whatever's happening, whatever you saw or think you saw, we'll face it together. That's what partners do."
Partners. The word hit her like a physical blow, because she knew with sudden, terrible clarity that he was going to propose tomorrow night. The white dress vision wasn't some distant future—it was next week, next month, a future that felt as real and inevitable as the sunrise.
Unless she destroyed it first by chasing smoke and shadows.
"I have to go," she whispered.
"Tali, please—"
