Baltimore was cold.
Not just in temperature, but in presence.
The streets felt like they'd been drained of something essential—warmth, maybe.
Or time.
I walked along cracked sidewalks until I reached the place the coordinates led me to.
Row 42. Building 7.
No sign.
No door.
Just a rusted gate and a bricked-up storefront.
Until I blinked.
And it was there.
A faded awning.
Gold letters etched in the dust:
"Covenant & Sons: Antiquarian Books"
I stepped forward.
The door creaked open before I touched it.
Darkness.
But not empty.
Thick.
Layered.
Like the inside of a throat, just before a scream.
I entered.
And the door closed behind me.
Shelves loomed like trees in a forgotten forest.
Tall.
Narrow.
Overstuffed with books that looked alive.
Some pulsed faintly.
Others twitched.
One wept ink from its spine onto the hardwood floor.
And still—complete silence.
I wandered.
Letting instinct guide me.
Passing books titled:
"The Child Who Screamed The Moon"
"The Woman Who Ate Time"
"Binding Rituals of the Hollowed Heart"
Every title felt like a whisper against my skin.
Then I found it.
A desk.
Dusty.Carved with symbols.Covered in names.
And at its center, a large leather-bound ledger.
The cover was scorched, as if it had survived a fire someone wanted it to die in.
But it endured.
I opened it.
The pages were written in blood.
Old blood.
Dry.
Cracked.
But fresh enough to still hold power.
Each page had three columns:
Name. Offering. Result.
I flipped forward.
Hundreds of entries.
Most in languages I couldn't understand.
Some just symbols.
But then I saw it.
My name.
"Elias Marr."
Offering: Memory of JoyResult: Access Granted
And then, several pages later—
My name again.
Same spelling.
Same ink.
Same hand.
But the offering… was different.
Offering: True Name of Another
Result: Pending Collection
My chest tightened.
What did that mean?
Had someone used my name before?
Or was someone else pretending to be me?
Or worse… had I done this and forgotten?
Was the Market keeping receipts from past lives?
I turned the page.
The blood ink shimmered faintly.
Like it was watching.
Waiting.
Then a gust of wind rustled the pages and flipped them forward—faster than I could stop.
Until it landed on a blank page.
But only for a second.
Because new ink began forming.
Right before my eyes.
"Would you like to leave another offering?"
A pen appeared in my hand.
I hadn't picked it up.
It was just there.
Warm.
Alive.
Like a finger from someone else's hand.
I hesitated.
The Market never asked twice.
That was part of the unwritten rule.
You had to decide now, or the door closed.
"What's the offering?" I whispered.
The book answered:
"The name of the one who cursed you."
I froze.
Because I knew exactly who that was.
I didn't have their full name.
Just a whisper of it.
A ghost of a name that lingered in my nightmares.
From the night I signed the original contract.
I dipped the pen.
And wrote one word.
The only part of the name I remembered.
"Verelith."
The blood sizzled.
The book shivered.
And then it turned to ash.
Crumbled in my hands.
Gone.
The air changed.
Thickened.
Books on the shelves began to hum.
Some opened on their own, pages flapping like frantic wings.
The building groaned.
And from the back room, I heard a voice.
Female.
Soft.
Singing.
Something ancient.
Something wrong.
I followed it.
To a door marked "Restricted."
No handle.
Just a mirror in the center.
I stared.
And the reflection wasn't me.
It was her.
Verelith.
She was taller than I remembered.
Eyes glowing blue.
Skin cracked like porcelain.
And her smile… was tired.
Not cruel.
Not mocking.
Just sad.
"You finally remembered," she said through the glass.
"Why?" I asked. "Why curse me?"
"Because you asked me to."
The door opened.
No sound.
Just darkness.
And the smell of old paper and wet stone.
I didn't walk through it.
Not yet.
Because I understood what this was.
Not just another room.
Another layer.
I was being offered access to her domain.
To Verelith's archive.
Where names died and were reborn.
Where contracts were rewritten.
But first… I had to give something up.
Not a memory.
Not a possession.
But something far more dangerous.
My certainty.
Because from this point forward, nothing I knew about myself could be trusted.
Every truth could be fabricated.
Every memory, altered.
That was the price of entering deeper.
I stood in the threshold.
Took one breath.
And stepped through.