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While cleaning out my old hard drive, I found a strange encrypted file dated back to 2008. The filename was a series of random numbers, but something about it felt familiar. My hands trembled as I clicked to open it.

Dad always told people he was in "waste management" when they asked. It wasn't exactly a lie - that's what his ID badge said. But the way the trucks only moved at night, and how he never talked about his routes... well, we knew better than to ask.

Dad always told people he was just a security contractor. Pretty vague, right? But that's how things worked in our town. When your neighbor's car showed up with strange dents and scorch marks, you learned not to ask questions. That's just life near the base.

Dad always told people he was just a security contractor. But I noticed how he'd get calls at weird hours, and sometimes he'd disappear for days. When my friends asked, I'd just shrug and say he worked nights. We all understood the unspoken rules.

The old photograph I found in Dad's study showed three scientists in white coats, but their faces were carefully scratched out. On the back, written in faded ink, was a date and a single word: "Containment." Some family secrets are better left buried.

Dad always told visitors he worked in "data management." It became our inside joke at dinner. We knew the massive satellite dishes behind his office weren't for managing spreadsheets. But that's how it was growing up - everyone had their cover stories.

Dad always told people he was just a security guard at the base. Simple job, nothing special. But I noticed how he never brought his uniform home, never talked about coworkers. When friends asked, he'd just smile and say "Night shift's pretty quiet."

Beneath the crumbling stones of St. Michael's Abbey, where moonlight pierces ancient stained glass, lies a chamber untouched by time. Here, among dust-laden grimoires and forgotten relics, whispers of celestial secrets echo through corridors where mortal footsteps dare not tread.