Before the first word was written, there was silence.
And in that silence, something listened.
The Library did not begin, nor end. It existed — a labyrinth of marble and light suspended in a place that was neither night nor day. The air shimmered faintly, full of the scent of old parchment and dust, and the sound that filled it was constant: the soft, rhythmic whisper of turning pages.
Elian often thought it was the sound of the Library breathing.
He woke, as always, to the same gentle hum that vibrated through the floor. There was no sun to mark time, only the pulsing glow of the lamps embedded in the high glass ceiling. They brightened when he opened his eyes, dimmed when he slept. He had never questioned why.
He dressed in silence — a white uniform that fit too perfectly, as if it had always belonged to him — and tied his dark hair back with a strip of linen. The reflection in the mirror beside his cot was almost unfamiliar: gray eyes, pale skin, the faint mark of ink on his wrist that never faded no matter how hard he scrubbed.
He stepped into the hall, and the Library greeted him with its usual stillness.
Shelves rose like pillars into the endless height, disappearing into the light above. The books were organized in perfect order: bound in black, gold, or ivory, each labeled not with titles but names. The names of people. Some were long and complex, others short — sometimes a single letter.
Elian had never met any of them. He didn't know if they were living, dead, or something in between. He only knew his duty: to maintain the records. To read them. To remember.
He began his routine — his footsteps soft against the marble, his gloved hands brushing gently against spines that pulsed faintly at his touch. The books reacted to him, sensing recognition. Some whispered softly when he passed, faint murmurs that rose and fell like sighs.
He paused before one: "Aveline Corra."The cover was worn, the gold lettering faded. He opened it carefully.
For a moment, the world shifted.
He stood beneath a vast, open sky — not the colorless light of the Library, but deep, aching blue. The wind carried laughter, and a woman's voice called out a name he didn't quite catch. Then, as quickly as it began, it vanished. The memory sealed itself again, leaving only ink on paper.
Elian exhaled slowly. "Still stable," he murmured.
The sound of his voice startled him. He rarely spoke, and when he did, the Library seemed to listen.
He replaced the book and continued. The rows stretched endlessly; sometimes he thought he could walk forever and still never reach the end. Once, long ago, he had tried to count how many sections there were. He gave up after reaching the number two thousand three hundred seventy-one.
No one had ever come for him. No one had ever left.
Still, there were times when he felt… watched.
Not by eyes, but by something vast and unseen. The shelves seemed to lean closer when he hesitated. The air grew heavier when he forgot to speak the daily invocation:
"Memory is the root of being. To remember is to exist."
He whispered it now, under his breath.
The lamps flickered, acknowledging the words.
At the heart of the Library stood the Central Index, a massive dome of glass and gears. There, the machine ticked — a circular mechanism of brass arms and silver rings, each moving with impossible precision. Its voice was the only sound that broke the silence: a faint metallic chime marking every new addition to the archives.
Elian approached, placing his hand on its surface. "Any new arrivals?"
A soft click answered him. A drawer slid open, revealing a single card. He lifted it — smooth, white, blank except for one faintly written name.
Elian.
He froze. His throat tightened as he turned the card over, half expecting an explanation. None came.
"This is wrong," he said, though to whom he wasn't sure. "Archivists don't get recorded."
The Library didn't respond.
He placed the card back, the drawer closing on its own. For a moment, the hum beneath the floor seemed to falter — as though the entire structure had paused to listen. Then, without warning, a sound echoed from the distant halls.
A flutter.
Like pages turning where none should.
Elian frowned. The Library never made that sound unless someone was reading.
He followed it.
The corridors twisted unpredictably today — or perhaps it was his memory that wavered. Some corners he turned led to familiar shelves; others opened into rooms he didn't recall ever cleaning. A staircase spiraled upward, but when he reached the top, it ended at a blank wall.
He retraced his steps, his heartbeat loud in the quiet.
The flutter came again — closer this time.
At last, he found the source: a single book lying open on the floor, its pages moving though no air stirred. The light around it was dimmer, colder.
He crouched down. The title on its spine was almost too faint to read. When he leaned closer, the letters sharpened into focus — forming a name that made his stomach drop.
The Archivist Who Forgets.
His hand trembled. That couldn't be right. There were no books about Archivists. The Library recorded others, not its caretakers.
He hesitated, then opened it.
The pages were empty — all but one. On it was written a single line, in ink darker than any he had seen.
"If you are reading this, you are already forgetting."
He felt a chill creep down his spine.
"I'm… forgetting?" he whispered. The word sounded strange on his tongue.
The lamp above flickered once, twice. The marble beneath him pulsed faintly — heartbeat-like. He shut the book and stood quickly, scanning the shelves for anything out of place. But everything looked normal. Perfectly ordered.
Still, something felt different.
The silence wasn't silence anymore. It was listening.
He replaced the book where he'd found it and stepped back, trying to shake off the unease. Maybe it was an old record. Maybe it didn't mean anything.
And yet, when he turned to leave, he caught sight of his reflection in the polished floor — and for a split second, he thought he saw someone standing behind him.
A flicker. A silhouette. Then nothing.
He closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. "You're tired. That's all."
But as he returned to his quarters, the words from the book echoed in his mind.
You are already forgetting.
He lay on his cot that night, staring at the endless white ceiling. His mind replayed the day's events — the blank card, the wrong name, the strange message. He tried to remember how long he had been here, what came before, but his thoughts slipped away like water through his fingers.
At some point, he must have fallen asleep.
He dreamed of a world outside the Library — of sunlight on skin, of laughter, of a voice calling his name in the distance. When he woke, the memory dissolved, leaving only the faint impression of warmth.
He rose slowly, glancing around his quarters. Everything was as it should be.
Except —
The book lay on his desk.
He hadn't brought it back.
The title gleamed faintly under the lamp's pale light.The Archivist Who Forgets.
And this time, when he opened it, a new line had appeared beneath the first:
"Tomorrow, the shelves will move."