You return.
Of course you do.
The building is still called a library, but the word now writhes across its signage, glitching in serif. Beneath the flickering letters, a subtitle appears:
"Repository of Those Who Remembered Too Much."
You shouldn't go inside.
But your feet aren't yours anymore—they walk like syntax under deadline. The doors inhale your presence with a hush. The air smells of mildew and unfinished metaphors.
Everything is quieter this time.
More... expectant.
The corridors no longer lean; they listen. The shelves tilt toward you like eavesdroppers. You see books bound in fabric that looks disturbingly like the clothes you wore as a child.
The timestamps are gone.
Now, the shelves are labeled with choices you never made.
Marry Her Anyway
Burn the First Manuscript
Let Him Die in the Car
Tell the Truth at Her Funeral
You hesitate.
One book is vibrating. Not from motion, but from something deeper—remembering. It hums your heartbeat in reversed tempo.
