> I woke up with a name that didn't belong to me—carved into my skin in a language I've never learned.
The world isn't what it was.
People are remembering things that never happened. Buildings whisper old names at night.
And somewhere beneath the earth, something ancient is breeding a new Archivist.
They say the Archive collapsed. They say the last one—the boy called Callum—burned it down.
But it's not gone.
It's just... rewriting.
And I think it's writing me.
I'm not a librarian. I'm not a priest.
I'm not even human anymore.
I'm a placeholder for something that remembers too much.
And when I dream, I don't see the past.
I see the next shelf.