When Elian woke, the Library smelled of rain.
The scent was faint but unmistakable — petrichor, sharp and clean, clinging to the marble like an echo. The ink stains from the night before had dried into dark veins that traced the floor, converging toward the far hall.
He followed them in silence.Every few steps, he thought he heard someone else walking too — just a half-step behind him — but whenever he turned, there was nothing.
The Library's lights burned low, as if conserving energy. He passed shelf after shelf, their labels blurred, the books whispering softly as though trying to catch his attention. Once or twice, he thought he heard his name. Or what might have been his name.
"...Elian…"
The sound came from a row of journals, all bound in deep blue. He reached for one.
The moment his fingers touched it, the whisper became clear.
"Don't be afraid."
He froze.The voice wasn't loud, but it carried warmth, a familiarity that made his chest ache. It wasn't in his ears; it came from somewhere within him, resonating against his pulse.
He opened the journal.
The first page was blank. On the second, faint words began to bleed through the paper — not written, but emerging, as though drawn up by memory.
I can see you.You're standing where the floor bends. You always hesitate there.I used to do the same.
Elian looked down. The floor beneath his feet was warped slightly, the marble curved as though softened by heat. His throat went dry.
He whispered, "Who are you?"
The next line appeared slowly, like someone tracing it from the other side.
You know my name.
He stood there for a long time, the book trembling in his hands.He did know. Or at least, part of him did — like remembering the shape of a dream just after waking.
"Nara," he said softly.
The ink on the page darkened, the words blooming like flowers after rain.
You remember me.
A faint smile tugged at his lips before he realized it. "Are you… alive?"
Alive enough to reach you.
He turned the page. Each one filled itself as he moved, letters forming from nothing, dissolving when he looked too long. It was as if she were writing through the Library itself — a ghost with ink for veins.
The Library doesn't forget easily,but it erases differently each time.It made you forget me so you would stay.
Elian's pulse quickened. "Stay for what?"
To keep it alive.
He shut the book. His hands shook.
He walked. The halls around him felt different now — narrower, more organic. The walls flexed faintly, as though breathing in sync with his steps. The whisper followed him from shelf to shelf, sometimes faint, sometimes clear enough to sound like she was beside him.
You were supposed to leave when I couldn't.Why did you stay?
"I don't remember staying," he muttered.
You did. You always do.
He stopped at an intersection. One path led deeper into shadow, the other toward a faint golden light. He hesitated — until the scent of rain grew stronger from the dark path.
She was guiding him.
He followed.
The corridor ended at a door he didn't recognize — simple, wooden, with a brass knob worn smooth by countless hands. Above it hung a faded sign carved with words too blurred to read. The whisper grew softer now, almost shy.
It's where I began.
He pushed the door open.
The room beyond was small, filled with scattered pages pinned to the walls. Drawings, diagrams, pieces of text, some crossed out, others rewritten in different handwriting. At the center sat an empty chair and a table with an open journal — the same blue binding as the one he carried.
He stepped closer. The journal's last written page ended mid-sentence:
If I disappear, remember this — the Library isn't—
The rest was gone, torn cleanly from the binding. Elian ran his hand along the page, tracing the torn edge. The paper was still warm.
He whispered, "Nara, what happened to you?"
I tried to unwrite myself.
The voice trembled, softer than before.
The Library doesn't allow endings. When we try to leave, it turns our names into stories. That's how it keeps us — it rewrites us as memory.
Her words filled his mind like a slow tide.
You were supposed to destroy it. Instead, you built it again.
Elian gripped the desk. "I don't understand."
You will.
The journal pages fluttered, even though there was no wind. One loose sheet lifted from the pile and drifted toward him, landing at his feet. He bent to pick it up. On it was a sketch — a rough pencil drawing of a girl sitting on the Library's marble floor, her reflection stretching longer than her body, like the shadow of someone else.
At the bottom, in small handwriting, were the words:
To remember is to rebuild.
The ink bled slightly as if fresh. When he looked closer, he noticed faint fingerprints in the corner — his own.
He stumbled back. "No. This can't—"
The lamps flickered.
All at once, every page in the room began to move. The air filled with the sound of rustling paper, overlapping whispers, fragments of voices repeating half-remembered phrases.
"Don't forget—""You promised—""Elian, if you find this—"
The pages swirled into a storm, circling him like snow. He raised his arms to shield his face, but through the noise, he heard her voice — clear, steady, and impossibly close.
You built the Library because you were afraid of forgetting me.
The words hit harder than any blow.He froze, breathing shallowly.
And it worked.You've forgotten me a thousand times.But every time the ink dries, I find a way to remember you.
When the storm stopped, the room was empty again.Only a single page remained pinned to the wall, written in her graceful, looping script.
I'll find you at the Hall of Forgotten Futures.Follow the sound of rain.
Elian stared at the words until his vision blurred. The silence after her voice was unbearable — not absence, but distance.
He touched the ink. It was still warm, still alive, pulsing faintly under his fingertips.
He whispered, "Then I'll find you first."
The lamps brightened, as if acknowledging him. Somewhere above, the Library shifted again — a thousand shelves turning at once, aligning themselves toward a single, unseen point.
He felt it before he heard it: the faint patter of rain beginning to fall, even though the ceiling was whole.
The Library was opening the way.
Elian stepped out of the room. The halls were no longer endless; they curved inward, forming a spiral path lit by golden drops of falling water. With every step, the world grew brighter — not light, but memory returning. Faces, voices, the faint laughter of someone reading beside him.
He followed the rain.
And though the Library still whispered, for the first time, it no longer sounded lonely.