Even as they drifted apart — some whispering, some pretending to rest — the light from those digits reached every corner of the atrium. No one could escape it.
The young man sat near one of the shelves, back against the cold marble, eyes half-closed. He wasn't sleeping; none of them were. The Library hummed softly, as if the air itself breathed in and out. Every so often, he thought he could hear the quiet rasp of paper sliding against paper — the sound of books shifting when no one was near them. But when he looked, nothing moved.
The braided girl sat a few paces away, knees drawn to her chest. Her blank book rested on her lap, open to its first untouched page. She hadn't written in it. Maybe she never would.
The knife-holder, however, was awake. He leaned against a column, sharpening the blade edge against the stone, slow and deliberate. The scraping sound slithered through the silence like a threat.
When dawn never came — because dawn didn't exist here — someone finally said what everyone was thinking.
"We can't just sit here forever."
It was a girl barely older than a child, maybe fifteen. Her voice trembled even as she tried to sound brave.
"If there's an outside, maybe we can find a way out."
The knife-holder scoffed.
"Out? Where, exactly? You see a door labeled 'Exit'?"
She shook her head.
"Then… maybe food. Or water. Or answers."
That word — answers — caught the young man's attention.
They had spent what felt like days arguing about how little they understood. About what the Library wanted, what the books truly were, what that number on the wall meant. But no one had gone beyond the main hall since waking.
He stood, brushing dust from his sleeve.
"She's right. If we wait for the Library to tell us what comes next, we'll die waiting."
The braided girl hesitated.
"You think it'll let us just walk around? It might be a trap."
"Everything here is a trap," the young man said quietly. "At least exploring gives us a choice."
That word — choice — had weight.
It was the only thing that made them feel human anymore.
After some tense silence, eight of them volunteered to go. The rest stayed behind, curling near the base of the projection wall like moths to a dying light.
The young man led, the knife-holder followed behind him, and the braided girl stayed close but silent.
---
The first hallway stretched like a throat.
Its walls were made of pale stone lined with countless shelves, their books sealed shut with threads of wax. The spines were blank — no titles, no markings — yet the air around them felt charged, faintly magnetic, as if the words were still inside, pressing against the bindings to escape.
Each footstep echoed forever.
A boy near the back whispered, "It looks the same everywhere."
He wasn't wrong.
Every corridor led to another, identical in length and light. There were no signs, no landmarks, no clear end. Just aisles that curved softly, giving the illusion that somewhere ahead might finally open up.
The young man slowed near a corner. Something about the air shifted — cooler, sharper. The scent of dust thickened, mixed with something faintly metallic.
He raised a hand.
"Wait."
The others froze.
Around the bend, the hallway widened into a circular chamber. A dry fountain sat at its center — cracked marble, carved with spiraling runes that led inward to a hollow basin. No water, no sound, just stillness.
"It's beautiful," the young girl whispered, stepping forward.
The knife-holder caught her shoulder.
"Don't touch it."
She froze.
The young man crouched near the fountain's edge. The carvings weren't decorative — they resembled letters, ancient but deliberate. He traced a groove with his finger.
The stone was warm.
He withdrew his hand immediately.
"Warm?" the braided girl asked.
He nodded once.
---
Beyond the fountain chamber, they found rooms.
The first was plain, cell-like — bare walls, no furniture, only faint impressions in the dust as though something had once rested there.
The second had shelves full of broken glass jars, their contents long evaporated.
The third was locked.
They could hear something faint beyond it: a low hum, steady and rhythmic, almost like the heartbeat of the Library itself.
The knife-holder pressed an ear to the door.
"It's mechanical."
"Or alive," the braided girl murmured.
The young man didn't reply. He simply stared at the faint glow seeping from the door's seams — not light exactly, more like the memory of light.
---
Hours passed. Or minutes. There was no time here, only motion.
Eventually, they turned back. The path home was supposed to be simple — retrace their steps — but every corridor looked identical.
A rising panic rippled through the group.
"This isn't right," someone muttered. "We didn't pass this gap before."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes! That shelf— it wasn't tilted—"
The young man raised a hand.
"Calm down. Panicking won't help."
The knife-holder gritted his teeth.
"You calm down. You led us here."
He ignored him, scanning the shelves for anything familiar.
Then — a whisper.
"…hey…"
He froze. Turned sharply.
Nothing.
The others were watching him now, unease twisting their faces.
"What is it?"
He shook his head.
"Nothing. Thought I heard—"
But before he could finish, another voice cut in — a different boy.
"Wait. I heard something too."
The whisper came again. Louder. This time, unmistakable.
"...come closer..."
It wasn't coming from any person. It came from everywhere.
The air trembled. Dust drifted from the shelves like falling ash.
The young girl clamped her hands over her ears.
"Make it stop!"
The young man's heart pounded. He turned in a slow circle, eyes scanning for a source — a crack, a vent, a hidden speaker — but there was nothing. Just endless walls of books and that impossible voice weaving through them.
Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped.
The silence afterward was deafening.
The knife-holder was the first to move, pale and slick with sweat.
"We're done here," he muttered. "We're going back."
No one argued.
---
When they finally stumbled back into the atrium, the others were waiting.
Someone ran forward —
"Where were you? We thought—"
—but stopped short when they saw their faces.
They looked hollow. Gray. The dust clung to them like a film.
The young man glanced at the projection wall.
The number still read 72.
But beneath it, something new glowed:
COUNTDOWN: 14 DAYS.
A slow, pulsing timer beneath the number.
"What does it mean?" someone whispered.
The braided girl's voice trembled.
"Maybe another trial."
The knife-holder spat on the floor.
"Or maybe that's when it kills us all."
The timer ticked once.
13:23:59:59.
A single second gone.
The young man stared at it, then at the silent Library that surrounded them.
He thought of the fountain's warmth.
The whispers in the shelves.
The locked door with the heartbeat hum behind it.
Whatever this place was, it wasn't resting.
It was waiting.