The Library didn't have mornings, but Elian pretended it did.He liked to imagine that somewhere beyond the glass and marble, the sun still rose and fell — that its light passed through windows and spilled across the endless corridors.
But here, the light never changed. The lamps hummed in perfect stillness, casting the same pale glow as they had the day before. Only the great hourglass in the central hall marked time, though he no longer knew how long its sand took to fall.
He often wondered what would happen if it ran out completely. Would the Library stop breathing?
He rose from his cot, running a hand through his hair. Dust floated lazily through the air, stirred by his movement. His reflection in the small mirror above his desk looked tired — though "tired" meant little in a place that never allowed rest.
He checked the shelves in his quarters, straightened his notes, and tried to recall what day it might have been.There was no answer, of course. The Library offered no calendar, no clock, only tasks that refilled themselves endlessly.
He tried to shake the thought away and returned to the scriptorium.
The walk there was familiar — left at the whispering globe, right at the silver doors that never opened. Every corridor looked the same, yet he always knew the path. Perhaps that was the Library's doing, not his.
By the time he reached his desk, the silence had grown heavy again — so complete that he could hear the scratch of his heartbeat in his ears.
And then, a sound that didn't belong.
A drip.
At first, he thought it was an echo from the inkpot. But then another drop fell — soft, clean, unmistakable.
He looked up. The ceiling loomed far overhead, smooth and white, impossible to reach. Another droplet fell, landing on the parchment before him.
The ink blurred where it touched, forming a gray stain shaped almost like a flower.
Elian blinked. The Library had no leaks. It had no weather. Yet the faint scent of wet stone reached his nose — subtle, alien, real.
A third drop fell. Then a fourth.The sound spread outward, until the whole room was filled with the rhythm of falling water.
It wasn't a storm — more like a memory of one, retold by something that had never seen the sky.
He stood, chair scraping against the marble.The droplets shimmered before they hit the ground, dissolving into nothing. The puddles that should have been there were gone, leaving behind a strange chill that lingered in his fingertips.
Elian took a cautious step forward, eyes narrowing. The air felt alive, thick with a quiet pulse. And from somewhere deep within the labyrinth of shelves, a whisper traveled — soft, rhythmic, almost human.
He followed it.
The corridor stretched on longer than it should have, bending subtly, impossibly. The lights flickered in a pattern like breathing. As he walked, he noticed the books trembling on their shelves, the rain sound echoing farther ahead.
He turned a corner and froze.
There, at the corridor's end, stood a book on a pedestal of stone.It pulsed faintly with blue light, its surface translucent — like glass filled with a storm. Inside, clouds roiled and lightning shimmered through pages that turned themselves.
Elian approached, each step echoing louder than the last.
When he reached out, the surface of the glass was cold enough to sting. The storm moved toward his palm as though aware of his presence.
He whispered, "What are you?"
Then came the voice.Soft. Gentle. Too familiar.
"Do you remember the rain?"
He jerked back. The voice echoed through him rather than the air — a vibration that settled in his bones.
"I… I don't think so," he said, though even as he spoke, his vision flickered.
Rain. Wind. A field of grass beaten flat by the storm. Someone laughing — a sound that filled his chest with warmth and ache.
The memory vanished as quickly as it came, leaving him trembling.
He reached out again, more desperate this time."Who are you? Why are you showing me this?"
The storm slowed, and the lightning inside dimmed to a pulse.Letters began to etch themselves on the glass, one by one.
Because you were once one of us.
Elian's heart lurched."One of… you?"
But there was no answer — only a low hum beneath the words, like the world itself remembering.
He hesitated, then lifted the cover.
It opened without resistance.
A rush of wind tore through the corridor, wet and cold. Pages burst from shelves, swirling in a spiral as though dragged into the heart of the storm. His coat whipped around him, rain striking his face.
Then, for a single breath, the Library was gone.
He stood on cracked stone overlooking a drowned city. Towers half-submerged, the sea glittering with lightning. Water lapped at his boots. And through the sheets of rain, he saw her — a girl in white, standing atop a crumbling bridge.
She turned, her face a blur of light, and whispered something carried by the storm:
"Elian."
The sound felt like recognition.
Then it was gone.
The Library snapped back into place — quiet, dry, sterile. The book slammed shut. The puddles vanished, the air turned still, and all that remained was the faint scent of rain and a drop of water clinging to his wrist.
He stood motionless, heart pounding.The echo of that other world still rang in his ears.
He whispered to the sealed book, "Why show me this? Why now?"
As if in reply, new words bled across the surface:
Memory is a bridge, not a cage.
Elian ran his thumb over the phrase. The glass was warm now, humming faintly like a heartbeat.
A bridge.
He repeated the word, quieter each time. "A bridge to where…?"
The lights flickered once. Then again.And in that moment of darkness between blinks, he saw movement at the far end of the corridor — the silhouette of someone standing among the shelves, watching.
He turned sharply."Who's there?"
No answer.When the lights steadied, the figure was gone.
He stared into the distance for what felt like minutes. Then he exhaled and left the room, the storm's echo following him like a second shadow.
He tried to sleep that night, but the sound of dripping water wouldn't stop. He tore the room apart searching for the source — nothing. Still, each time his eyes closed, he saw her again: the girl with the light-filled eyes, calling his name through the rain.
When he finally sat down, exhausted, he noticed something on his desk.
A small piece of paper, dry and perfectly cut.His own handwriting, unfamiliar and hurried:
Find her.
Elian stared at it until the lamps dimmed.For the first time since he arrived, the Library felt too quiet. Too awake.
And somewhere beyond the endless walls, something whispered — not from the shelves, but from the memory of falling rain.