Arin led Mira through the twisting alleys, following streets that seemed to shift behind them. Every corner brought new distortions: doors that led to blank walls, street lamps that flickered with unnatural shadows, and whispers that carried the names of people long forgotten.
Their destination was an old, neglected library on the edge of the district. The building's stone façade was scarred and chipped, with windows so dark they reflected nothing. A place forgotten by the city itself.
Inside, dust hung thick in the air, and rows of books leaned precariously on their shelves. But the strangest thing was the ink: hundreds of pages had names scratched out, some almost completely obliterated, leaving only faint impressions.
Arin ran his fingers over one such page. A chill ran down his spine. These were people—students, citizens, names he recognized, and others he didn't. All erased. All forgotten.
"Why would anyone do this?" Mira whispered, her voice echoing softly in the cavernous room.
"I don't think it's someone," Arin said, eyes scanning the titles and notes. "I think the city is… recording what it wants to erase. And maybe it's deciding who survives."
A sudden movement caught his eye. A shadow flickered between the shelves, moving against the natural flow of light. He tensed.
"Arin… we're not alone," Mira murmured.
The whisper came again, softer this time: "Remember… or vanish."
Arin realized that every erased name in the library was a warning, a foreshadowing of what would happen if they failed to hold on to their identities. And if the city's hunger reached them, they would be next.
Clutching Mira's hand, Arin whispered back, more to himself than anyone else: "We remember. No matter what."
Outside, the wind howled, rattling the library windows. The city waited. Watching. Deciding.