The streets of Valenrook were already awake by the time I stepped outside.
Coal smoke drifted lazily through the narrow lanes, clinging to brick walls and iron railings as though the city itself exhaled with each passing moment. The morning air was cool, tinged with the faint bitterness of soot and boiled water. Shopkeepers were already at work, pulling open wooden shutters with groans of old hinges, their movements practiced and unhurried.
Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang.
Slow. Deliberate.
It marked the hour without urgency, as if time here had learned patience long ago.
My feet carried me forward automatically, without hesitation or conscious thought.
Left at the corner.
Past the tailor's shop, where bolts of fabric were already being arranged behind the glass.
Across the long, narrow bridge that stretched over the canal, its dark water reflecting the pale morning light in broken fragments.
I didn't remember memorizing this route.
There was no recollection of walking these streets before no memory of learning the shortcuts or counting the steps between landmarks.
And yet, every movement felt too familiar.
As though this body had walked these paths countless times before, even if my mind hadn't.
I adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder. Its weight was comforting in a way I couldn't explain, grounding me in the present. People passed me in ones and twos, coats brushing close in the narrow streets. Their faces were tired, ordinary, unremarkable men and women concerned only with the rhythm of their own lives.
No one spared me a second glance.
Good.
Very good.
If I blended in if I remained just another face in the morning crowd then maybe this world would continue pretending I belonged in it.
The Valenrook Public Archive stood at the end of the street.
Its stone façade was darkened by years of soot and rain, the structure solid and unyielding, as if it had been built to endure the slow erosion of time. Tall windows lined the upper floors, their glass opaque with dust, allowing in light but revealing nothing of what lay within.
Above the entrance, faded lettering marked its name, carved deep into the stone each letter worn at the edges, as though meant to last longer than the city itself.
I reached for the door and unlocked it.
The familiar click of the mechanism sent a strange sense of relief through me.
Inside, the scent of old paper and ink washed over me, thick and unmistakable. It greeted me like an old acquaintance one I didn't remember meeting, yet somehow trusted.
The door closed softly behind me.
My feet continued moving on their own, guiding me through the quiet hall toward the librarian's desk. Rows of shelves stretched outward in neat order, their spines uniform, their silence heavy but not oppressive.
I stopped at the desk.
There was a ledger waiting.
I reached for it—
And paused.
A book rested beside it.
I didn't remember bringing it out.
Its cover was unmarked no title, no author just worn leather, smooth in places where countless hands had touched it over time. The edges were softened, as if the book had been opened and closed more times than it could remember.
For some reason, my head began to ache.
Not sharply.
Not painfully.
But insistently.
Like a quiet pressure pressing inward, urging me to look closer.