The Last Library of Echoes

The historical archives where I worked had an old dusty feeling that sat in my lungs and made me feel old. In my world, I could document the lives of individuals who had passed away with brittle paper and faded ink. This place I remember fondly was a quiet and private one, mirroring the complete absence of my grandmother. The world had become dull without her, and she was the final link to a feeling of wonder.

And I took that weird assignment because of that. A crate of uncategorized texts donated to the museum by another private collector was brought in for sorting. My task was to organize them. The crate was peculiar, made of dark wood that felt warm even in the cold basement. The books inside were unlike anything I had ever laid eyes on. The leather straps were adorned with unfamiliar constellations and had a scent of ozone and cold stone, rather than decay.

Faded velvet was used to wrap the sole key at the bottom. It was heavy, intricate, and made of iron. A silver hair-thin strand attached to it held a small city map on parchment, with an unknown building marked in faint silver ink. A compulsion, a whisper on the brink of my hearing, advised me to seek it out.

A section of the city that was abandoned on my map led me to a small alley that wasn't visible on any modern mobile device. And there it was. This building appeared to lean on those beside it for support, its Gothic spires gazing up at the twinkling of the twilight. Above the door, a sign with the words The Libry of Echoe was written in decaying wood. The ‘a’ and ‘s’ had long since disappeared. The key fit perfectly.

No sound was heard as the door opened.

I entered a maze of tales. There was no limit to the Library of Echoes. Black obsidian carvings were used to create bookcases that towered above the floor, which was lost in a mist of its own making. Millions of gold-leaf titles were illuminated with a soft, melancholic light from every corner. The silence was a living thing. The silence felt present, not the absence of sound. All it needed was some breathing space.

I wandered, my steps swallowed by the gloom. I put my fingers through the spines, and my gloves made a muted, faint sound. I pulled one out: Arthur Pembrooke. It slipped out of my hands. A life I didn't know was written in elegant script on the first page. While the opposite page was blank, words began to appear and write themselves in silver ink. Why?

“The salmon for dinner tonight will be chosen.”

“A phone call will be placed to him at 8:17.”

“The plan that will modify his entire week…”

I tossed the book as if it had scorched me. It fell to the floor, and the pages remained in plain sight, documenting a future that had not yet been realized. A terrifying, thrilling realization dawned. This library wasn't about the past. The library was designed for the future. Every book was the unwritten life of a person alive at this moment.

I had to find mine.

It took hours. It seemed as though the library was changing, guiding me and trying to hold me back. After a while, I found it in a secluded bay with the same fiery cobwebs that had appeared on the cover. I was disappointed by the book's thinness, which resulted in a dull and anxious grey cover. My name was written on the back.

With my hands shaking, I opened it. The tale of my life was narrated in detail, even noting the time I had managed to enter the library just hours prior. My chest was pounding. I turned to the next blank page.

Silver ink began to flow.

“Thirteen minutes will be necessary for Elara to remain paralyzed by fear and possibility. Next Tuesday's entry will be read by her as she turns to page 203.”

I gasped. It knew I was here. I read it as the writing spoke about me. It gave me a sudden sense of self-awareness. I had to know. I turned the page, my eyes fixed on Tuesday.

The entry was simple, devastating. “The museum will let her go after she takes the key. The loneliness will deepen.”

In the midst of silence, I replied with a firm “No.” That word was eaten by the library. This couldn't be my future. Desperation took over. Could I modify this book to ensure its relevance in my life? Looking at the entry again, I discovered that I would lose my job.

If I were not fired, what would be the outcome? If I gave the key back without anyone being aware, what would be the outcome? The page remained unchanged. While staring, a new sentence formed beneath the initial one. The ink was darker and almost angry, still silver.

“Another option necessitates a compromise. A memory for a choice.”

There was a voice in my mind, not heard but felt and just as dry as the world around me. “Feeding the narrative is necessary to bend it.” The words came from memory. The ink has to come from a certain source.

I understood. This was the cost. The library was not solely a predictor of the future, but also used human potential. It consumed memories that were used to generate energy.

What was the most valuable memory I had from my job? My dignity? I could see my grandmother's face, the sound of her laughing. Was that the price? With the book firmly shut, I breathed in, sweat on my skin.

I fled. After that, I stayed in my tiny apartment until I returned the key. I didn't get fired. Upon returning the key to my roommate the next day, I said it had been in another container. I saw my boss shrug, but he was already preoccupied.

I haven't lost the library. A recurring, silent noise I can't shake off follows me. I find myself dredging scraps of paper onto maps in the middle of the night. I found a blank page in my coat pocket and put it on my desk next to my computer when I returned home.

Every morning, I check it.

It's still blank. For now.

The library's call will return to me when the first silver word emerges, but I am aware that it won't be forever. The last archivist's purpose has been fulfilled, and the story is only in its early stages.