He was overwhelmed by strange emotions. On one hand, he felt a sense of satisfaction at how easily he had arrived here. On the other, a gnawing worry crept in. How could it all have happened so easily? Of all the strange and intense experiences he had endured while living as Zephyr, this was by far the most unexpected—and the easiest. It felt too coincidental. What were the chances he would decide to look inside that particular drawer? Among all the papers, books, and notes, what were the odds of him finding that one special page? And even then, how likely was it that he'd notice the tiny, two-centimeter structure drawn at the bottom? Stranger still, what was the invisible force—whatever it was—that compelled him to redraw the structure and recite the poem aloud, replicating it perfectly without even realizing why?
Even though unease gnawed at him, Soren chose to push forward, his curiosity stronger than his doubt. The endless white fog still stretched in all directions, just like before. But something felt... off. He began walking along the familiar black path—and quickly noticed something odd. He could walk here. His legs, which failed him in the real world, moved freely in this strange space.
What exactly is this place? Soren wondered, his footsteps echoing faintly into the nothingness.
He walked for what felt like an eternity, but unlike last time, the forest where he met Zephyr never appeared. The scenery refused to change, remaining trapped in the same misty monotony. Just as he began to feel frustration prick at him, a random thought surfaced: When I return, I should ask Sophie to take me to the library. It was a fleeting idea, nothing more—but here, even stray thoughts held power.
Before he could question it, the space around him began to shift.
The fog rolled back, revealing towering walls of ancient wood. He was no longer in the white void, but within the spiraling grandeur of a library unlike anything he'd ever imagined.
The Grand Library was a dizzying spiral of knowledge carved into the very earth. Arcs of gnarled, ancient wood formed the shelves, sagging under the weight of countless tomes. The air was thick with the scent of old paper, dust, and something sweeter—like the aroma of forgotten stories and whispered secrets.
Above, narrow shafts of light streamed in from unseen windows, casting dancing motes into the air. The upper galleries jutted out from the walls—balconies carved with beasts, leaves, and curling vines—each one cradling even more shelves. The wide spiral staircase twisted downward, its polished banister smooth from centuries of use.
As he descended, the light faded. Oil lamps and glowing orbs nestled into alcoves lit the way, their soft flames casting long, writhing shadows. The books seemed to breathe, and the silence felt sacred.
The spiral felt endless, but eventually, Soren reached the bottom. In the center of the floor stood a giant table, circular and carved from dark wood. Only one chair sat at its side—waiting.
Soren sat on the lone chair, the heavy silence of the library wrapping around him like a cloak. On the grand table before him lay the very page that had brought him here. Curious, he picked it up—but the miniature structure was gone, and the poem had vanished too.
He stared at the now-blank paper, frowning.
"How the heck am I supposed to know how this place works?" Soren muttered, resting his chin in his hand.
Then, a memory clicked. Zephyr had told him something—he could ask questions by writing them on the paper, but only for a limited time and number. That made each question valuable.
He groaned, rubbing his temples. "Should I ask how to get back to reality? Or how I'm supposed to maintain this place? Or maybe… what this place actually is?"
He sighed, then banged his forehead gently against the table a few times, hoping it would knock some clarity into him. When that failed, he slapped his cheeks.
"Focus, Soren. Come on," he whispered.
Finally, an idea began to take shape. He sat up straight, ready to write—only to realize a new problem had appeared.
There was no pen.
He stood from the chair with a dramatic groan and moved toward the towering bookshelves, scanning the space for anything he could use to write. After fifteen long minutes of rummaging through drawers, behind books, and opening ornate cupboards, he finally found a pen tucked away inside a dusty cabinet.
But no ink.
A frustrated sigh escaped his lips.
Another fifteen minutes passed as he scoured more shelves and cupboards, his clothes gathering dust and his patience wearing thin. Eventually, tired and mildly irritated, Soren slumped back into the chair.
"Getting here was easier than finding a damn ink bottle," he grumbled, glaring at the empty pen.
"What should I do now?" Soren muttered, slumping over the table. "I'm not that smart... solving mysteries and riddles, doing all this brain work—ugh, this isn't me."
He leaned back in the chair and stared up at the endless spirals of books above. "It'd be better to just sleep," he mumbled. "But I can't... not in this place. It's too quiet. Too... eerie."
The weight of the silence pressed on him. No ticking clock, no rustle of pages, no breath but his own.
Then, his eyes dropped to his wrist.
"My hands… they look beautiful," he whispered, tilting them in the low light. "But also… a little scary."
A mad glint passed through his eyes.
"Well," he said with a sigh, "it won't be that bad."
He took the pen, now useless without ink, and pressed its tip into the soft flesh of his palm. A sharp sting. A line of red welled up.
"Best solution. Easy work," he whispered.
With deliberate strokes, he dipped the pen into the small trail of blood and carefully wrote on the paper:
"Explain the use and working of this place."
Suddenly, every word on the paper began to glow faintly, casting a silver light across the table. Before Soren could react, his consciousness slipped again—just like before.
He found himself in that dream-like state.
This time, he stood in the forest.
The same forest where he had first met Zephyr.
But this was different. He wasn't meeting him—he was inside him.
It was like one of the nightly memories, except clearer.
He couldn't see Zephyr's face, not truly—because now, he was Zephyr.
Zephyr looked around slowly, taking in the quiet trees, the mist hanging low over the earth.
Soren didn't know why, but it felt like something important was about to begin.