She was pale, her silver hair damp and matted against her forehead.

An oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth, condensation fogging the clear plastic.

“Mom,” I said, my voice cracking as I stepped forward.

Lucas and Mason stayed close behind me, each holding one of my hands.

The paramedics stopped the gurney near the center of the lobby.

Dr. Aris hurried over, checking the portable monitor hooked to the metal frame.

My mother’s eyes fluttered open, squinting against the bright fluorescent lights of the lobby.

She looked at me, and a faint line of tension on her forehead smoothed out.

Her right hand was resting on a thick, faded manila folder clutched against her chest.

Her fingertips were stained with a deep, reddish-purple residue.

It was the old mimeograph ink from the archive files she had refused to let go of.

“We found her in a secured room behind the old boiler line,” one of the agents told Dr. Aris.

“The room was locked from the outside,” the agent added, looking at his notepad.

“Mom, can you hear me?” I asked, kneeling beside the gurney.