Later, Eli found a building hidden among the trees. It looked like a chapel, but smelled like ink. Its walls were made of stone and moss, its door crafted from driftwood.
He entered alone.
Inside was a single room filled with shelves. Not books—but journals. Thousands of them.
Each one bearing a name carved into the spine. The room seemed endless.
He moved to a shelf and found one labeled "Julian Harrow." His son.
He pulled it down. It was warm to the touch.
Opening it, he saw not words, but scenes. Living vignettes. Julian at work, typing on a laptop. Julian sitting in traffic, cursing softly. Julian weeping into his hands at a park bench.
Eli turned the page. Julian, standing alone by Eli's grave. Silence. Then—
"Dad," Julian said aloud, "I don't know how to be without you."
Eli's breath caught.
The book shimmered. On the next page, Julian slept. A dream began. In it, Eli appeared—not exactly himself, but as a comforting presence.
A breeze. A hand on the shoulder. A knowing voice.
"I'm still here, Jules," Eli whispered.
And Julian smiled in his sleep.
Eli closed the book, heart full.
The librarian appeared—a figure cloaked in robes of twilight.
"This is the Book of the Still-Living," they said. "You may visit your loved ones through it. Whisper into their dreams.
Leave pieces of yourself in their days."
Eli placed the book back.
"What happens when they forget me?" he asked.
"They never truly will. But if your memory fades, you'll move on. To the deeper places. Where the soul journeys after the echoes grow faint."
"Am I allowed to go back?"
The librarian smiled gently. "Only in spirit. In signs. In music. You will be what they need, not always what they recognize."
Eli bowed. "That's enough."
As he left the chapel, the wind picked up. Leaves danced like stories retold. He felt himself opening—wider than ever before.
In the distance, Lena called his name