Seojun woke before the haze lightened the sky.
It was habit now—pre-dawn rising, long before the streets stirred. The ovens needed time to warm. The dough needed patience. In Eldridge Hollow, days blurred together into one long, choking exhale of gray, but the bakery remained his quiet rebellion.
Bread still rose, even when hope did not.
Yeast didn't care about poisoned skies or the coughs that had begun claiming neighbors one by one.
He swung his legs over the bed, bare feet touching the cold wooden floor. Beside him, his wife Mara shifted beneath the blanket but didn't wake. She worked the evening shift at the mending collective now—repairing what could still be saved. Lately, they passed each other like ships crossing in a narrowing night.
As he dressed—faded apron, flour-stained trousers—a faint pressure brushed his mind.
Seojun had once dreamed of a better world, before the haze settled and the factories fell silent…
He froze, shirt half-buttoned.
Those weren't his thoughts.
They felt layered over him.
Narrated.
Past tense—like his life had already been finished and filed away.
Seojun exhaled sharply and shook his head.
Bad air. That was what everyone said. The haze carried things—stolen memories, twisted dreams. Old Timmons down the lane had started muttering about voices last week. Turned out he'd just forgotten his pills.
Downstairs, Seojun lit the ovens.
Clang.
Whoosh.
The familiar sounds grounded him.
He measured flour, salt, yeast—movements carved into muscle and bone. When he kneaded the first batch, the rhythm took over.
Punch.
Fold.
Turn.
But today, the dough was… obedient.
Too obedient.
It rose perfectly, smoothly, without the stubborn air pockets that usually demanded coaxing. The loaves held their shape as though posing for an illustration.
In a quiet corner of a fading world, a baker persisted—hands dusted white against the encroaching gray…
The pressure returned.
Stronger.
Seojun's hands stilled, fingers sinking into the dough. Flour clung to his skin like ash.
"What in the voids…" he muttered.
He looked around the empty shop.
Shelves lined with yesterday's bread—hard crusts reserved for those who couldn't afford fresh. The front window framed cracked pavement, leaning lampposts, a stray dog nosing through refuse.
Normal.
Mundane.
And yet—
The light filtered through the haze at just the right angle, casting deliberate shadows. Even the scent of bread carried something unfamiliar beneath it.
Old paper.
Ink.
Seojun forced himself to continue.
Slide the trays in.
Set the timer.
Wipe the counters.
The door chimed earlier than usual.
Mrs. Lorne entered with her two grandchildren trailing behind. Day-olds, as always. She smiled too warmly today, her voice smooth and resolved.
"Bless you, Seojun. This bread keeps us going."
Yesterday, she'd complained about rising prices.
Today—gratitude. Closure.
Small acts of kindness wove the fragile community together…
The narration swelled, satisfied.
Seojun handed over the loaf with trembling fingers. The children thanked him—too brightly. As they left, one turned back and waved, perfectly timed.
The bell chimed shut.
Seojun leaned against the counter, heart pounding.
This wasn't right.
None of it was.
By midday, the unease had burrowed deep.
Customers came and went, conversations resolving neatly. Complaints softened. Smiles landed where they should. A neighbor who'd owed him flour for weeks paid without prompting.
"Felt right to settle," the man said, grinning.
Seojun barely heard him.
The voice narrated everything in past tense, as though archiving his life while he still breathed.
He closed the shop early.
Unheard of.
Bread burned in the ovens, but he couldn't endure another scripted exchange.
Mara found him in the back room, sitting among sacks of flour, head in his hands.
"Seojun?" She knelt beside him, worry creasing her face. "What's wrong? The ovens—"
"I hear things," he blurted.
The words spilled out.
"Not voices—words. Describing me. My life. Like I'm in a story someone's telling. And today—everything's too perfect. Too neat. Like someone's fixing it."
Mara frowned, pressing a hand to his forehead.
No fever.
"The haze plays tricks," she said gently. "Old Jessa swears she sees ghosts in the mist. And Timmons—"
"This isn't tricks!" His voice cracked. He grabbed her hands. "Memories are overlapping. I remember our first bake—you burned the bottoms black. We laughed till we cried. But now I also remember it going perfectly. Both at once."
His breath hitched.
"And there's this phrase—'There was once an Archivist.' What does that mean? Archivist of what?"
Mara pulled him close.
"We're all fraying," she whispered. "The cough took the Millers last month. People are scared. Minds wander."
"But it feels real," he murmured into her shoulder. "Like someone's watching. Writing us."
She held him tighter.
"You're you. Flesh and blood. Flour in your veins. Here. Now."
She pulled back, cupping his face.
"Bake with me tomorrow. Honey twists. Like when we started. We'll ground ourselves."
He nodded.
But doubt lingered.
As she led him upstairs, the pressure returned—soft, approving.
In moments of quiet doubt, love anchored the soul…
Seojun shivered.
In the Archive, I watched.
The blank book shimmered faintly, its pages reflecting his world like ripples on still water. Eldridge Hollow had stabilized. My reinforcement had spread carefully—routines strengthened, small kindnesses amplified.
The constellation burned steadier.
Nearby stories benefited too.
Measurable success.
And yet—
Watching Seojun unravel twisted something inside me.
He sat with Mara now, forcing down tea, confusion hollowing his eyes.
I had done that.
Guilt pierced sharp as the pen's tip.
Whisper coiled beside the desk, suckers glowing softly.
Him hurt?
"Yes," I admitted. "My fault. I tried to help—and touched too deeply."
Whisper paused.
Your words strong.
"Too strong."
Faint sighs echoed somewhere distant.
Deletions continued elsewhere.
The Readers were quiet—but watchful.
On his porch, Seojun stepped into the haze.
Streetlamps flickered weakly.
He looked up at the blank sky.
"Who's watching?" he whispered, voice breaking. "What do you want from me?"
The words didn't travel through air.
They pierced the veil.
I flinched.
Whisper recoiled.
He sees.
The blank book stirred.
Crimson ink bloomed beside my sentence.
Intriguing.
He's listening.
Keep going. They're starting to notice.
I slammed the book shut.
But Seojun's whisper echoed on.
For the first time—
A character had spoken back.
And somewhere among the infinite shelves, a new tendril stirred.
Not in pain.
In curiosity.