The Library of Lost Languages

00:09:59 until next jump.

They descended the spiral stair and stepped onto a parquet floor that sighed beneath their weight—old oak, warped by centuries of whispered syllables. Rows of shelves soared into darkness, each book spine glowing with a soft phosphor that pulsed like a resting heartbeat. The air tasted metallic, as if letters themselves had rust.

A brass placard floated at eye-level:

> RULE OF TONGUE

EVERY WORD YOU SPEAK BECOMES A COIN.

SPEND IT ONCE—IT IS LOST TO YOU FOREVER.

SILENCE IS WEALTH.

The placard chimed, and a single copper disc—embossed with the word HELLO—clattered to the floor at Cass's feet. The moment it struck, the word vanished from his throat. He tried to say it again; only a dry click emerged.

Mara's eyes widened. She clamped a hand over her mouth, but a tiny involuntary gasp escaped: "Quiet." Another coin clinked down—silver this time—and the concept drained from her voice. She would never utter that word again.

Jun wisely sealed his lips, giving a curt nod instead.

Whisper, unfazed, tugged Cass toward the central desk. A librarian waited—tall, genderless, skin like vellum stretched over clockwork. Instead of eyes, two fountain pens jutted from the sockets, dripping ink that spelled floating words before evaporating:

> ASK / ANSWER / PAY

Cass pointed to the ASK glyph. The librarian's hand unfolded into a scroll. A quill scratched across it of its own accord:

> WHAT IS THE FASTEST WAY TO CAR 0?

The scroll burned away, leaving three copper coins labeled:

> TRUST, MEMORY, NAME

Choose one to spend.

Cass hesitated. He had already bartered decades of lifespan; losing his own name might unravel the Core's registration. He looked at Mara. She understood and stepped forward, eyes steady. She took the MEMORY coin, pressed it to her temple. A silver thread—like liquid moonlight—pulled free and coalesced into the coin. The metal glowed, then vanished.

Mara blinked, expression blank for a heartbeat. She turned to Cass, lips moving, but no sound. Whatever memory she'd traded—birthday, first kiss, mother's face—was gone, and with it the ability to recall any specific childhood moment.

The librarian inclined its head. A new aisle opened between shelves, books rearranging themselves to form a corridor lit by bioluminescent footnotes.

They walked.

Every few steps, words peeled from their tongues unbidden.

Jun lost sorry, help, why.

Mara sacrificed hope, tomorrow, safe.

Whisper, mute by choice, lost nothing—her drawings now the only language she would ever need.

At the corridor's end stood an ornate door lacquered black. Embedded in its center: a single keyhole shaped like a question mark. The librarian gestured to Cass.

> YOU HAVE ONE WORD LEFT. SPEAK IT.

Cass's remaining vocabulary felt thin, ragged. He could say open, key, run—but each would be gone forever. He glanced at the timer on his wrist: 00:04:11.

He exhaled, formed the word with care, and let it fall like a coin.

"Please."

The copper disc bearing PLEASE slid into the keyhole. The door swung inward without a sound—because the concept of sound itself had just been spent.

Inside: a narrow catwalk suspended over an abyss of fluttering pages. At the far end, a pedestal held a single book bound in mirror-skin. Its cover reflected the reader's face minus one vital feature—Cass saw himself eyeless, Mara mouthless, Jun earless.

Whisper's reflection was entirely blank, as if she were the page yet to be written.

The book opened on its own. Lines appeared in ink that smoked then froze:

> TO SPEAK IS TO PAY.

TO READ IS TO OWE.

TO UNDERSTAND IS TO FORGET.

Beneath, an embossed stamp:

CAR 0 KEY – PRICE: ONE UNIVERSAL WORD

Cass understood. There was only one word common to every language on the dying Earth.

He leaned down, kissed the page, and whispered "love".

The word burned off his tongue forever.

The mirror-book slammed shut. A brass key—long, skeletal, teeth shaped like tiny question marks—materialized in his palm. Its surface pulsed in sync with his new eye.

00:03:00.

The catwalk began to retract, pages below rising like startled birds. They sprinted. Words leapt from their mouths with every footfall—fast, left, now—coins spinning into the void before clattering out of existence.

They reached the exit arch as the last plank vanished. The doorway spit them into a vestibule where gravity returned with a jolt.

The door sealed behind them, now blank, no handle, no hinges—just a single engraved line:

> SILENCE IS THE ONLY LANGUAGE THAT NEVER DEBTS.

Cass opened his mouth to warn the others. Nothing came out.

Mara touched his arm, eyes wide. She too was mute.

Jun tried to scream; only breath.

Whisper held up her crayon. On the paper she had drawn a new rule:

"Next car: the Choir of Unspoken Names."

00:02:47.

The train lurched, couplers groaning like a throat learning how to speak again.