In the forgotten section of the old library in the town of Lin, there existed a room no librarian would acknowledge. The main building was grand—its towering stained-glass windows spilling fractured light across marble floors, the air smelling faintly of paper, polish, and the faint musk of time. But deep in the western wing, past the catalogues that hadn’t been touched in decades, beyond shelves sagging under the weight of brittle volumes, there was a place that didn’t seem to belong to the building at all.
It had no door in the traditional sense, no number painted above a frame, no sign to warn or invite. It was simply there, tucked between two bookcases that seemed to lean toward each other like tired sentinels. Most people never noticed the space between them. And those who did found only an unbroken wall of old oak paneling. The librarians—those grizzled veterans of dust and quiet—never spoke of it. If asked directly, they would grow oddly still, their eyes sliding away as though they’d misheard the question.
Its shelves groaned with books that had no author—only blank spines, their leather covers scarred with age. When touched, the pages did not rustle like paper should; instead, they whispered. Not words exactly—more like the hushed murmur of a conversation just beyond comprehension. People who heard it claimed the sound made their thoughts wander to strange places, dredging up memories they’d never had.
Elias, a novice scribe working in the archives, discovered it by accident. He had been tasked with retrieving an obscure map from the genealogy section—something about tracing old family lines for a town historian. It should have been a simple job. But as he navigated the labyrinth of shelves, a candle flame flickered at the edge of his vision. There shouldn’t have been any open flames in the library; lanterns were kept carefully enclosed. Yet this flame drifted slowly down an aisle, bobbing like it was held in a hand. And though the corridors in this part of the library were short and straight, the one ahead seemed impossibly long, stretching deeper and deeper.
Compelled by curiosity more than sense, Elias followed. The shelves here looked different—taller, darker, their edges curling like dried leaves. The air shifted, growing heavier, scented faintly of ink but also something darker, like the metallic tang in the air before a storm breaks. He could hear his own heartbeat louder than his footsteps. The flame reached the end of the corridor and winked out, revealing a narrow opening between two towering shelves. He stepped through.
The room beyond was unlike any place he had ever seen in the library. It was vast but dim, lit only by a slow, pulsing glow from somewhere unseen. The shelves here were ancient—some bowed so deeply they seemed on the verge of collapse, others straight as soldiers. Not a single spine bore a title. When Elias brushed his fingers across one, a whisper bloomed in his ear, faint but distinct, like someone recounting a dream they’d just awoken from.
“These are the stories that never were,”
A voice said. Elias spun, heart leaping. From the shadows emerged a woman or perhaps not a woman at all. Her shape was human, but her presence was wrong, as if she had been drawn in a slightly different style than the rest of the world. She wore long black robes the color of wet ink, and her hair—if it was hair—hung in strands that shimmered faintly like lines on old parchment. Her eyes, pale and silver, regarded him without surprise.
“Who are you?”
Elias asked.
“The archivist,”
She said simply, her voice a blend of many tones, young and old at once. She walked past him, trailing her fingers along the shelves. Where she touched, no dust stirred though everything else in the room was coated thick with it.
“Lives unlived. Choices unmade. Here, the threads of what could have been are kept.”
She stopped before a tall, wide volume and slid it from its place. The leather cover was worn but sturdy—and etched into it was Elias’ own face. He stumbled back.
“What—how—?”
“Yours is unusually… complete,”
She murmured, running a finger over his likeness.
“Most people get pamphlets. A handful of pages. But you…”
She glanced up at him, something almost like amusement in her gaze.
“You have lived on the edge of many paths.”
She opened the book. Elias stared. Inside were pages filled with vibrant illustrations, some so real they seemed to move when he blinked. Each page was a life—a version of him. One was a scholar, hunched over scrolls in a candlelit chamber. Another stood on a battlefield, a sword heavy in his hand. One kissed a woman beneath a sky streaked with falling stars. Another lay face-down in a royal moat, blood drifting like ribbons around his head. Every page pulsed faintly with color, alive for a moment before fading into grey. Elias’ stomach churned.
“These are… me?”
“These are the yous that might have been,”
The archivist said, her voice soft now.
“Every decision you make closes a thousand doors. Every hesitation births a hundred ghosts. They all come here eventually.”
He reached out, fingers trembling, to touch a page where he stood at an altar, smiling, hand entwined with another’s. Warmth radiated from the parchment. The scent of flowers filled his nose. For an instant, he felt the weight of a ring on his finger, the quiet certainty of love returned. Then the image bled to grey.
A bell began to chime. It was faint at first, but growing louder, the sound shaking the shelves. Elias knew it—his real-world bell tower, marking the hour. He turned toward the sound, then back to the archivist. But the room was gone. He stood alone between two dusty shelves, the familiar musty air of the library pressing in. His heart still raced, his palms still tingled. The map he’d been sent to fetch was in his other hand, as if no time had passed.
Except… In his pocket, something crackled. He reached in and drew out a single page of thick parchment. It was warm to the touch. On it was a drawing of himself standing at the edge of a pier, staring out over a vast and misty sea. The horizon shimmered faintly, as though waiting for him to step forward.
He never told anyone what happened—not the head librarian, not his fellow scribes. But from that day forward, he avoided the western wing of the library. He told himself it was to save time, that the long walk wasn’t worth it.
And yet, at night, when the wind rattled his windowpanes, he sometimes thought he could hear faint whispers, calling him back to see the rest of his book.
