⋱⌘⋰ Lore Scrap ⋱⌘⋰
Some doors open themselves only for the broken.
⋯⋱⧉⋰⋯
The forest was the kind that remembered silence. The rain had followed her for miles. Long past the reach of any town or road, it still whispered against her coat, soft and insistent, like it had something to say. Eira didn't look up. Her boots squelched in the mud with every step, toes aching, coat soaked through. Her map was gone — eaten by wind or ruined by ink, she wasn't sure which. But she wasn't lost. Not really. The dream had told her where to go. Eira had wandered deeper than she'd meant to, feet carrying her past broken trees and hollowed bark, past mossy roots that curled like claws. The weight in her chest—grief, thick and unyielding—pressed harder than the underbrush. The letter in her coat pocket crinkled with every step — Julian's name still legible through the ink-stained paper. She wasn't sure how long she'd been walking—only that her legs burned, and the compass in her hand spun endlessly. It hadn't pointed north in hours. Through the hollow wood. Past the drowned roots. Follow the silence. She stopped at the tree line, heart thudding dully against her ribs. The air was wrong here — too still, like the forest was holding its breath. And in the clearing just ahead… A door. No walls. No frame. It stood in the centre of a stone clearing, built into nothing. Just rusted iron carved with symbols she didn't recognise, that seemed to shift when she blinked. Ivy curled up its frame like veins. There was no handle. But something about it… hummed. It shouldn't have been there. And yet… something in her chest whispered yes. Like memory. Like recognition. It shimmered faintly beneath the rain, and when she stepped closer, her breath caught. As she reached out—because of course she did—it opened inward with a whisper like turning pages. "Grief twists the mind," they always said. "Makes you see things that were never there." But what if it wasn't grief this time? What if this place had always been waiting? The door creaked open with a sigh. Behind it: not ruin, not stone. A corridor lined in ink-dark shelves, deeper than sight. Candlelight danced overhead in an unseen wind. Books — thousands — hovered midair or shuffled gently on their own, like they were stretching after a long sleep. No dust. No webs. No time. The scent of ink and candle-wax wrapped around her. She stepped through the threshold. And the world forgot her name. ⋯⋱⧉⋰⋯ The Library was endless. Rows upon rows of bookshelves stretched into the dark. Towering ladders creaked into unseen heights. Whispers drifted through the air—actual whispers, not imagined. The kind that tickled your ear and made your name sound like a secret. A flutter of wings broke the stillness — ravens, startled from a high perch, scattering toward the vaulted ceiling. Eira spun, heart hammering. But nothing pursued her. Only the strange, living quiet. She turned slowly, brushing her hand along the edge of a floating book. It pulsed faintly beneath her touch, ink bleeding briefly through its leather spine. A whisper curled in the air, soft as breath: "Return the name… unlock the memory…" She swallowed hard. "What?" The book stilled. Dead quiet again. And then she saw him. At the top of a long staircase, a man dressed in a long black coat—ink-stained and strangely old-fashioned—stood watching her, gloved hands folded behind his back. His gaze was sharp—far too steady for someone who looked barely thirty. But there was something ancient in the way he held silence, unmoving. His presence bent the air like heat — ancient, unreadable, wrong. Eira froze. The man descended one step. Then another. Slowly. Deliberately. The Library hushed around him. He stopped halfway down, eyes catching the flicker of candlelight — a deep, unnatural emerald. "You shouldn't be here," he said. "I never meant to be." "You're bleeding." She looked down. A scratch from the brambles. Blood dotted the floor — stark red against cold stone. The air around it shimmered faintly. A book on the nearest shelf rustled open without touch, its pages fluttering once, twice… before going still. His eyes narrowed. He descended slowly, as if time meant less to him. As if he'd grown tired of every second. When he stopped before her, the whispering books grew quiet. The man studied her like something curious. Dangerous. Then he moved again — all grace and inevitability — until he stood before her. The air around him shimmered. The light bent. He reached out, fingers hovering by her chin. "Let me see your face." She flinched — not from fear, but something deeper. Something pulled. His touch was featherlight. And then— Something ancient sparked between them — not warmth, not cold, but recognition. ⋯⋱⧉⋰⋯
A flash. The world disappeared. For a heartbeat, her entire self unraveled. Her eyes filled with stars — glyphs etched in language she didn't know, rotating in her vision like constellations. Her breath caught. So this is what divine power feels like. It wasn't painful. It wasn't kind. It simply was. When it passed, she was left breathless, trembling. Her cheeks flushed with color, her pupils still rimmed in that impossible light. She looked up at him, dazed. His expression hadn't changed. But in her chest, something had. Something was awake. "What is this place?" she asked. He looked at her with something like curiosity. Or dread. "The Whisper Library," he said. "And it doesn't open itself unless it wants something in return."
⋱◈⋰ End Chapter ⋱◈⋰