The next day began with silence — not peace, but starvation's kind.
They'd lost track of how long they'd been here. Time wasn't marked by sunrise or sleep anymore, only by the hollow ache that grew inside their ribs.
At first, no one wanted to admit it. Hunger felt too human, too ordinary for the impossible place they were trapped in. But by the second day after the retrieval, whispers began — people clutching their stomachs, voices thinning to murmurs of "There has to be food."
No one had seen any since they woke. The fountain in the atrium was dry, the air tasted like dust and ink, and the shelves stretched endlessly, filled with books sealed by invisible locks.
He rubbed his thumb against his fingers. He could still feel the ghost of that lost birthday tugging faintly at the edge of nothing. Gone, yet leaving behind a hollow shape he couldn't fill.
Hunger at least gave him something to focus on.
---
The first to speak that morning was the knife-holder. His voice was rough, dry from thirst.
"Anyone found anything yet?"
No one answered.
He clicked his tongue and looked toward the shelves. "The book that made water—where did we find it again?"
Someone replied from the back. "Near the west corridor. Top of the second shelf."
That was how the scavenging began.
They split into small groups, desperate, some clutching the books they already had as if they might protect them from the Library's whims. The memory of what happened with the blank book hung heavy — no one dared touch one again.
The young man stayed quiet. He didn't want to lead, not after the whispers that followed him since the last trial. Every time eyes turned his way, he looked elsewhere.
Instead, he followed one of the smaller groups — a quiet boy with bandaged fingers, a woman with a sharp tongue, and a tall man who hadn't spoken since the first day.
They moved in silence through the rows.
Hours passed — or minutes, time couldn't be trusted.
Then, a whisper broke the stillness.
"Here!"
It was the quiet boy. He stood before a book lying flat on a stone pedestal, open this time, unlike the others. Its pages shimmered faintly, as if the air above them wavered with heat.
The title read: Provision Log.
The woman leaned closer, squinting. "That looks… different."
The young man stayed back, watching.
The boy hesitated, then spoke. "What if it's like the one that made water?"
"Try it," the woman urged. "If it kills you, we'll know it doesn't work."
The boy glanced between them, then touched the page.
The air shimmered.
A small wrapped bundle appeared beside him — parchment tied with a thin string. Inside was a loaf of bread, pale and dense but unmistakably real.
He gasped, half-laughing. "It worked!"
The others stared, disbelief turning to hunger.
Then, as the boy lifted the loaf, the book in front of him began to darken — its pages curling, edges burning to gray ash until nothing but dust remained on the pedestal.
"One use," the woman whispered. "That's all it gives."
No one said anything for a long moment. Then the quiet boy broke the silence. "We should bring it back."
The tall man nodded. The young man followed, silent.
---
By the time they returned to the atrium, two other groups had found similar books. Each one yielded something different — another loaf, a jug of metallic-tasting water, something like dried fruit.
Only three books worked.
The rest stayed locked, silent, no matter how they were touched or pleaded with.
When they gathered again under the flickering light, the air was thick with both relief and resentment.
"Three books for seventy-two of us?" someone muttered.
"It's a start," the quiet boy said.
"It's not enough."
The knife-holder laughed under his breath. "So we ration? Or do we decide who deserves to eat?"
The young man kept still at the edge of the group, avoiding their gazes.
A woman near the center spoke up. "Share it equally."
The knife-holder barked a laugh. "Equally? When the Library decides who starves?"
He looked at the nameless man then — a long, knowing look. "Maybe he should decide again. Worked out great last time, didn't it?"
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
The young man said nothing. He just lowered his eyes, pretending not to hear. Attention was dangerous here — every time someone stood out, the Library seemed to notice.
The braided girl — the one who'd warned them about the blank books — stepped forward, voice trembling but steady. "He doesn't have to lead anything. We just… need to stay calm."
"Calm doesn't fill stomachs," the knife-holder muttered.
No one saw who threw the first shove.
The scuffle wasn't violent — just desperate. Hands grabbing, voices shouting, the sound of something breaking. One of the loaves fell, scattering crumbs that everyone stared at like they were gold.
Then silence.
The young man stayed where he was, back against a column, watching. It wasn't his fight.
But something in him twisted all the same — a flicker of shame buried beneath fear.
The knife-holder stood again, breathing hard. "This is how it's gonna be," he said. "Whoever finds it, keeps it."
No one argued. Not really. Hunger had already started to rule them.
---
No one trusted anyone.
The three books that had conjured food were gone, burned to ash after their single use. Their remnants were still in the center of the atrium — small, gray piles that looked like the ghosts of miracles.
The nameless man sat in the shadows near the fountain's dry basin. His stomach twisted.
He thought of the book that had taken his birthday — how it had felt to lose something invisible. How easily he could give up more, if it meant quieting the ache in his chest.
Maybe that was the Library's trick. Not to starve them to death, but to make them offer themselves piece by piece.
A faint whisper brushed his ear.
He turned sharply — but no one was there. Only rows of silent books, watching.
He told himself it was nothing. Just exhaustion.
Still, as he drifted toward restless sleep, he could've sworn he heard the same faint voice again — quiet, patient, and far too close.
"Hunger is a memory too."