Atrium of Whispers

The fog pressed close as Ash moved through the city's desolate streets, each gas lamp flickering weakly, its light devoured by the gloom. His footsteps echoed, too loud in the silence, a stark reminder that the city's usual clamor was absent. Even the air felt wrong cold and stale, laced with a metallic tang that set his nerves on edge.

He pulled his coat tighter, fingers brushing the book concealed beneath the fabric. Its warmth was a steady pulse, faint but undeniable, a reminder that it was more than just parchment and ink. Something alive lurked within its pages, watching with quiet intent.

Wonderful, Ash thought dryly. An eldritch book with a personality. Just what I needed.

The sarcasm was a flimsy shield, one that barely held against the mounting dread.

The whispers started softly at first, indistinct and sibilant, threading through the fog. Words half-heard, urging, coaxing. Ash quickened his pace, jaw clenched, eyes darting to every shadow. He'd lost count of how many times he'd glanced over his shoulder since the sun dipped below the horizon.

Paranoid,he chided himself. Or maybe just sensible, considering the week I've had.

The observatory loomed ahead, its cracked marble facade half-hidden by dead vines. Once a monument to knowledge, now a husk of its former self doors ajar, windows fractured, spires skeletal against the night sky.

Ash slipped inside, boots scuffing against dust-coated tiles. The air was heavy with the scent of old parchment and iron, stale and metallic. Rows of shelves stretched into the darkness, each packed with books whose spines were warped and titles