⋱⌘⋰ Lore Scrap ⋱⌘⋰
"Some stories file you."
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Days passed. At least, Eira assumed they had. The Library held no clocks, no sun. Only candlelight and shadow, and the quiet shuffle of whispers that never truly slept. She sorted by routine. She ate little. Slept less. Her inkbinding pulsed in her wrist like a second heartbeat. Always warm. Always watching. She dreamed of names she had not read. Doors she had not opened. Books that bled. Cael said little. Watched from doorways. Left her to learn or drown. Then the whisper arrived. It was left on the table like any other. Wrapped in a child's shawl — thin, faded wool, fraying at the seams. It vibrated gently in the basin, like it was cold. Or grieving. Cael didn't announce its arrival. He simply placed it in front of her. No name. No seal. Just a look in his eyes she didn't quite know how to read. Then he stepped back into the shadows. Eira stared at it. Her fingers hovered above the cloth. The air had changed. She touched the shawl. And the whisper opened. Not in sound. In sensation. Laughter, high and sweet. A mother's voice, gentle at first — then panicked. A scream that was never answered. A silence that had stretched too long. A name no one had spoken in years. The grief hit her like a fracture. Her knees gave. Her breath shuddered. And then came the tears. Not the kind that came with sorting. Not the quiet ache of memory. This was the kind that came from the body forgetting how to hold itself together. She sobbed — loud, broken, curled into the floor. The whisper didn't stop. It wanted her to feel it. It wanted someone to remember. "Make it stop," she gasped. Cael was already moving. His hands — steady, sure — bound the whisper in runes drawn midair. They wrapped the basin like thread. The whisper faded to a hush. Eira was still on the ground, arms wrapped tight around her ribs. Cael didn't speak. He knelt beside her, not touching, not intruding. "He didn't know he was gone," she said finally. "He was still looking for her." Cael nodded slowly. "Why does the Library let us feel it?"
"So you don't forget that what we do matters." "It hurts." "Good. That means you still have your name." She turned her head toward him. His expression was unreadable. But his eyes — deep, tired — watched her like he was seeing something he hadn't expected. "Does it get easier?" "No." "Then why stay?" A pause. "Because someone has to carry what's left." Silence again. Then he reached for her. Slowly. One hand rested on her shoulder — light as breath. She didn't move. Their eyes met. She inhaled. "Cael—" But he stood before she could finish. "You need to rest." "That's not what I was going to—" He was already walking away. The candlelight trailed behind him like a retreating tide. Eira sat in the dim quiet. She was tired. But she wasn't done.
⋯⋱⧉⋰⋯ To be continued…
⸻ ❖ Archive Fragment ❖ ⸻ Some stories linger. Some are waiting to be named.
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