Neno’s fingers clenched around the page, its ink shifting beneath his touch like something alive.

"Saranja does not remember. It does not want you to leave."

His breath was unsteady. The street he had just walked down was gone, replaced by a seamless wall of stone. No cracks, no seams—just absence. The city had rewritten itself, swallowing the path behind him.

A chill pressed against his spine.

He turned.

The fountain still stood before him, its ink-dark water unbroken. The hollow-eyed version of himself was gone, but the unease it left behind remained, coiled tight in his ribs.

Slowly, carefully, he backed away from the fountain, keeping his eyes on it until he reached the edge of the courtyard.

Then, with a breath he barely trusted, he stepped onto another street.

The buildings leaned closer now.

Neno could feel them, shifting just beyond his vision. Not physically—at least, not in a way he could see. But in the way the space between them seemed to narrow.

The street he followed was narrow, its stones cracked and warped, as if something had pressed against them from beneath. The walls of the buildings bore marks, long scratches that didn’t seem made by hands, but something else.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

As he walked, he passed doors with no handles.

Windows that should have revealed the insides of rooms, but only reflected the sky above.

The air felt thicker.

Like something breathing.

Then—

A whisper.

Low. Frayed. Right behind him.

His body locked, every muscle coiled in instinctual terror.

He turned slowly.

The street was empty.

But the door beside him—one of the handleless, sealed doors—was open now.

Neno stared at the dark entrance.

A part of him screamed to keep moving. To pretend he hadn’t seen it.

But another part, the same part that had gripped the Hollow Gospel in his hands, whispered:

You are already inside the city’s memory. You have to understand it.

He stepped inside.

The air in the room was stagnant, thick with the scent of dust and something older. The room had no furniture—just walls lined with empty shelves, as if books had once filled them, but had since been removed.

Or erased.

The farthest shelf, however, was not empty.

A single book lay there, its cover warped with age.

Slowly, Neno reached for it.

The moment his fingers brushed the leather, a sound rippled through the room—

A deep, wet, gasping breath.

Neno froze.

The walls groaned.

Then—

The pages of the book flipped on their own, violently.

And words burned onto the paper, searing into the parchment as if being written in real-time.

Neno’s eyes widened as he read.

"Neno Vaulden reaches for the book. His hands tremble. He reads the words that were never meant for him."

His breath hitched.

The ink continued to write itself.

"Behind him, the door closes. He does not hear it. He does not see what stands in the corner of the room."

Ice flooded Neno’s veins.

His fingers loosened on the book.

Slowly, carefully—he turned around.

A figure stood in the corner.

Motionless.

Faceless.

A mass of ink-drenched flesh, its mouth stretching too wide, its arms too long, its body hunched, as if waiting for him to notice it.

The moment his eyes landed on it—

It moved.