The rain quiets, dissolving into a silver mist that clings to the Archivist's skin. The corridor ahead hums faintly, not with silence this time but with something strange and alive. Laughter. It slips between the shelves like smoke, soft at first, almost playful, but layered with something cracked beneath the surface.
He stands still, listening. The sound isn't pure joy. It trembles, as though an echo is trying to remember what it once meant to be happy. The laughter grows, rising and falling, multiplied by a thousand reflections bouncing across the marble. Every tone carries a different soul. Some giggle like children, others choke mid-breath as if laughter is strangling them.
He follows the sound. The air thickens with warmth that feels artificial, a parody of life. The shelves pulse faintly, their wooden frames expanding and contracting like lungs. The mist ripples around his feet, carrying faint ripples of light that scatter when he moves.
The corridor opens into a vast chamber. It feels alive. The ceiling curves high above him, painted with shifting words he can't quite read. The walls are formed from towering shelves that bend inward, enclosing him within a ribcage of knowledge. The laughter grows louder, pressing against his skull.
One of the books shakes violently, falls from its shelf, and lands open at his feet. The sound bursts from it — a laugh, sharp and joyous, before twisting into something like a scream. The Archivist steps back, startled, watching as the pages flip on their own, faster and faster until they blur into a storm of faces. Each face smiles, then cries, then vanishes.
He looks up. All around him, books begin to stir. Some quiver as though breathing. Some hum. Some whisper words he can't make out. Then, all at once, the entire chamber awakens.
Laughter. Sobbing. Singing. Shouting. The air fractures into a storm of emotion. Every sound that has ever existed, every joy and sorrow ever spoken, collides and reverberates. He feels it in his bones. The books are alive. The memories inside them are reacting to his presence.
He falls to his knees, clutching his head. Images crash through him — a wedding, a war, a birth, a scream. He sees flashes of faces, places, histories he's never known, each one burning through him for a single heartbeat before vanishing.
Then one laugh rises above the others. Clear. Familiar. It cuts through the chaos like a thread of light.
At the center of the chamber stands a small pedestal. Upon it rests a book, golden and cracked, glowing faintly from within. The laughter comes from there — soft, genuine, almost kind. He walks toward it, step by step, every movement silencing another voice in the room until only that one sound remains.
He reaches out. The moment his fingers touch the cover, the chamber convulses. Pages fly through the air, spinning like birds. Shelves groan and bend. The light stutters. And through the flickering haze, he sees movement.
Someone else is there.
A figure moving between the shelves, calm amid the chaos. A man placing books one by one, careful, patient. The Archivist watches. The man turns his head slightly, and the world holds its breath.
It's him.
The same face, the same dim glow in the eyes, the same quiet exhaustion etched into every gesture. The Archivist takes a step closer. The other does too. Their movements sync perfectly. When he raises his hand, so does the reflection. When he exhales, the other breathes with him.
Then the other smiles.
A small, knowing smile. The kind that says: You've been here before.
The laughter fades. The books fall silent. The air grows still, heavy with a truth he cannot yet name. The figure across from him doesn't vanish. It simply watches, patient, as though waiting for him to understand.
The Archivist whispers, "Who are you?"
The answer doesn't come from the figure. It comes from the walls themselves. Thousands of whispering voices blend into one phrase, spoken in endless tones, echoing from every direction.
"You've done this before."
The Archivist stumbles backward, the realization cutting through him like ice. He looks at the figure again, but it's already dissolving, turning to mist, leaving only its voice behind.
"Remember us," it says softly. "Even if it kills you."
The chamber begins to close. The shelves slide together, sealing the paths he came from. The laughter returns, fractured now, breaking apart into sobs. The air trembles. And through the sound, he hears it — a faint cry from somewhere deep within the hall.
A single book lies open on the ground, cracked and trembling, sobbing quietly. He kneels before it, uncertain whether he can bear to touch another memory. But the Archive waits.
He reaches out, his hand hovering over the page. The crying stops, leaving only the sound of his breath. Somewhere beyond the chamber, a single candle flickers to life, its glow faint but steady.
He follows it, the echo of laughter still chasing him, turning into weeping as it fades behind him.