The building shouldn't have been there.
That was the first thing Mara noticed.
She stood on the cracked sidewalk of East Franklin Street, staring at a structure jammed neatly between a closed laundromat and an abandoned bakery. It looked old—older than the rest of the street—with narrow windows, dark stone walls, and a wooden door carved with symbols she didn't recognize.
She checked her phone.
The map showed empty space.
No label. No address. Just gray.
"I've walked this street a hundred times," Jonah muttered beside her. "This has never—ever—been here."
Mara's stomach tightened. She felt the now-familiar pull behind her eyes, the pressure that came whenever the city did something wrong.
A brass plaque hung beside the door.
PUBLIC ARCHIVE — QUIET REQUIRED
Jonah frowned. "That's not a library."
"Then why does it feel like one?" Mara said.
The door creaked open before they touched it.
Inside, the air smelled like dust and ink and time. Shelves stretched farther than the building should allow, packed with books, journals, maps, and files. A single desk lamp glowed in the center, casting long shadows.
"This place is bigger on the inside," Jonah whispered.
"Yeah," Mara replied. "That's a bad sign."
Footsteps echoed.
A woman emerged from between the shelves—tall, pale, with silver hair pulled into a low knot. Her eyes were sharp and knowing.
"You're late," she said.
Mara's heart dropped. "We've never been here before."
The woman gave a thin smile. "No one ever is. Not the first time."
She gestured behind them. The door was gone.
"This library," the woman said calmly, "does not exist on any map. It holds what the city forgets."
Jonah swallowed. "And what does it want with us?"
The woman's gaze fixed on Mara.
"It wants its rememberers," she said. "And unfortunately, you qualify."
Somewhere deep in the building, a bell rang—soft, deliberate.
And Mara realized they hadn't found the library.
The library had found them.