There was a room the building didn't know.
It didn't appear on any floor plan. It had no door, no handle, no number. It was born not of blueprint but of need—a sanctuary scribbled hastily into the margin of an unwritten page.
Jamie found it by accident.
Or perhaps the room found him.
He stumbled through the spiral corridor with Mira behind him, the void lapping at their heels like a tide of ash. They turned left when they meant to turn right, descended when they meant to rise. Their steps made no sound now. Even breath had gone quiet.
But then—
A wall blinked.
A seam opened.
And the hallway let them go.
Jamie fell forward into stillness.
The space on the other side was… impossible.
A library, but not like the archives. This one breathed gently, like it wasn't watching. The walls were warm wood, dust settled like snow across forgotten spines. No blood. No flickering lights. No teeth hidden in paragraphs. Just the scent of old paper and the faint tick of a grandfather clock tucked into the corner.
He stood slowly.
Mira didn't follow.
She'd vanished.
Not violently.
Just gently—like something respecting the need for solitude.
Jamie blinked at the rows of books.
Not all were bound.
Some were scattered pages. Others were journals with broken locks. Some looked more like letters.
And every single one was titled the same way:
A LIFE JAMIE DIDN'T LIVE
He pulled one from the shelf and opened it.
Inside: a Jamie who left the building the first time the doors opened. He became a marine biologist. Lived near the coast. Married. Raised twin daughters who had no idea what he'd almost been swallowed by.
He smiled. Then cried. Then turned the page.
The next book: Jamie stayed. Became the next Archivist. Lost his name. Kept the stories. Let the building consume his body but preserved his mind in the static halls of the West Wing.
Another book: Jamie died at fifteen, before he ever entered the building. Drowned. His mother never stopped hearing him in the pipes.
Another: Jamie turned the rewrite key on himself.
Became versions.
So many versions.
And somewhere in the middle—
He found the one where he never met Mira.
That one he closed gently, carefully, with the reverence of a funeral.
He moved to the back of the room, past the tick-tocking clock, past the window that didn't show outside but a memory. Not his. Not exactly.
It showed a kitchen.
Warm light. Wooden chairs. A woman humming.
Not his mother.
But a mother one of him must've had.
Jamie sat in the chair below the window.
Folded his hands.
And breathed.
For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn't running. He wasn't searching. He wasn't unraveling.
He was being.
And in that breath, something whispered.
Not the Origin. Not the Void.
But himself.
The version of him that had never picked up the key.
"You know you can walk away," it said.
Jamie closed his eyes.
"I know."
"You could let it collapse. The stories. The building. The threads. Just let it fall. Let it end."
Jamie thought about that.
And then: "I could. But that wouldn't be the end. That would be the loss of the end. And that's worse."
The whisper was silent after that.
Maybe it had said all it needed to.
Maybe it had never been real.
Jamie stood.
The books hadn't changed. But he had.
He walked to the far wall, where no shelf stood. Just a mirror.
It didn't reflect him.
It showed the others.
Ansel—bloodied, pressing on.
Mira—lost between wings of the building, looking for a way back to him.
Gareth—cracking apart, his skin peeling into glyphs.
And behind all of them…
It.
The anti-story. The un-name. The false ending that wanted to devour beginnings.
Jamie touched the glass.
It rippled.
And spoke, in his voice: "You ready to go back?"
He didn't answer.
He just stepped forward.
And let the room forget him.
Somewhere, the grandfather clock ticked once more.
Then stopped.