Chapter 3: The Library that Never Closed

By the time Elior got home, it was nearly 3 a.m.

He didn't sleep.

Even with the blanket wrapped around his head, even with the lamp on, he couldn't unsee the eye-carved statues, the hidden staircase, the letter that somehow knew everything he had done. And the message…

> I saw you dig.

Who sent it? Who was watching them? How did they know?

He stared at the glowing screen for hours, but no other messages came. Just those four words. Four words that burned into his chest like a brand.

When dawn finally broke, he felt like he'd aged a year overnight.

---

By afternoon, Elior and Maren met again—this time at the edge of Greyhollow's forgotten district. A quiet place of abandoned buildings, broken windows, and rusted lampposts. It was where the town's history had been buried—where the past was kept hidden, quite literally, in a place the locals simply called:

The Old Library.

No one went there anymore.

It had been closed since before either of them were born, shut down after a fire in the west wing. But the building still stood, looming like a corpse that refused to rot.

"This is where the letter said to come," Maren said, her voice low.

Elior nodded. "Yeah. But why here?"

She didn't answer.

The front doors were chained shut, but Maren led him around the side, to a cracked basement window half-covered by ivy.

"I found this last year," she whispered. "I used to come here to draw. It's always cold inside… like it never left winter."

Elior gave her a look. "You sneak into burned-down libraries for fun?"

Maren smirked. "You follow mysterious letters from the dead."

Fair enough.

They slid through the window, into darkness and dust.

Inside, the air was stale, but still tinged with a strange smell—like wet stone and dried ink. Shelves still stood in the deeper corners, though most of the books had rotted or been taken. The only light came from their flashlights, bouncing off broken tiles and scorched walls.

They moved slowly.

Somewhere above, the wood creaked.

Elior froze. "Was that—?"

"Shh."

They waited.

Silence.

Then a whisper.

Not a voice. A page turning.

They followed it.

---

In the back of the library, past a wall of toppled shelves, they found a room marked ARCHIVES. The door hung crooked, burned at the hinges.

Inside, everything was… untouched.

No ash. No rot. Just shelves, perfectly preserved, and a circular table with papers still spread out across it—like the fire had never come here. At the center of the table sat a black leather-bound book.

No title.

No author.

But Maren gasped the moment she saw it. "That's it," she whispered. "It matches the one in my grandmother's notes."

Elior picked it up, heart pounding.

Inside were records—names, dates, maps of Greyhollow from two centuries ago. Some pages were marked with blood-red ink. Others were missing entirely, ripped out. But near the back was a list of burial rituals—and one passage circled in what looked like charcoal:

> The Seventh Gate must never open.

Seven graves. Seven locks. One body. One soul. If the letters are sent, it has already begun.

Below it was a name:

Lucien Grey.

"Lucien Grey," Maren whispered. "The founder of the town."

Elior's mouth went dry. "He's the one writing the letters?"

"I thought he died over a hundred years ago…"

They flipped the page.

There, in clear writing, were seven names, each one tied to a numbered grave. Most of them were long dead—mayors, priests, judges. But the final name made both of them freeze.

> 7. Maren Elswick – to awaken the gatekeeper.

"What…?" she said, voice trembling.

Elior stared. "That's your name."

"But… that doesn't make sense. I'm not part of any of this. I—" She backed away from the table, shaking her head.

Elior flipped the book closed.

That's when the lights flickered.

For a moment, he thought it was just his flashlight.

But no—actual lights, yellow and buzzing, came to life overhead, though they hadn't worked in decades.

Then a voice, quiet and echoing, filled the room.

Not through speakers.

Not in the air.

Inside their minds.

> "You've read the letter. You've crossed the gate. Now the dead remember your name."

The shelves groaned. Papers fluttered into the air. The entire library seemed to inhale.

Elior grabbed Maren's hand. "Run."

---

They burst out the archives and fled through the halls, flashlights swinging wildly. The building shifted around them, hallways no longer where they'd been. A staircase became a wall. A window showed a graveyard instead of the alley.

"This isn't real!" Maren gasped.

"Then why can't we wake up?" Elior shouted back.

Something moved through the library—something they couldn't see but felt. Like a thousand insects crawling beneath the floorboards. And then, from the main lobby:

A figure.

Tall. Draped in black.

Its face was wrapped in yellowing cloth, with only one thing visible—a single, open eye stitched into the center of its forehead.

It didn't walk. It floated.

And in its hands…

A letter.

The same black wax seal.

It raised the envelope and dropped it to the floor.

Then it vanished.

Elior stepped forward, chest tight.

This time, the letter was addressed to both of them.

They opened it together.

> Four nights remain.

The book has been opened. The key has been chosen.

The girl must remember. The boy must follow.

Return to where the breath first stopped.

Beneath the roots.

There, the truth will awaken.

There, the dead will speak.

—L.

---

They left through the basement window, shaken and pale.

Outside, the wind had picked up. Trees swayed violently, though the sky was calm. Somewhere in the distance, a dog was howling. Or maybe it wasn't a dog at all.

Maren sat on the curb, head in her hands. "Why my name? Why me?"

Elior sat beside her. "I don't know. But you saw your grandmother's notes. Maybe your family… maybe they were part of this for generations."

She looked at him. "And you? Why you?"

He didn't answer. He didn't know.

But in his pocket, the first letter burned faintly with warmth—like it was alive.

---

That night, Elior dreamed again.

But it wasn't a dream.

He stood in the same cemetery from before—but now all the graves were open. Empty. A fog covered the ground, and from it rose seven figures in robes, faceless, chanting in tongues he couldn't understand.

At the center stood Lucien Grey.

He wore no face.

Only a carved mask of an eye.

And in his hand… a book bound in skin.

Elior tried to run—but roots burst from the ground, wrapping around his legs.

Then Lucien spoke, his voice deep and cold:

> "You cannot stop it now. The letters have been sent. The soil remembers."

Elior gasped awake, sweat pouring down his face.

And on his windowsill…

Another letter.

No seal.

Just a single sentence written in ink that bled like blood:

"The girl remembers more than she knows."