They often said that when it rained, it meant that the Goddess was weeping. In Elision, where every day was nothing but gray and gloomy, the Goddess surely never stopped grieving for them.

For example, this morning, hundreds of raindrops fell on the roof of an old building near the forest. The building creaked, the windows rattled, the pipes dripped, the ceiling lifted, and the drains clogged from the non-stop downpour.

There was a thumping noise like dozens of books falling inside the slate-roofed, brownish-brick building. Early in the morning, in the fall of the 10th month, in one of the rooms with a plaque that read: SOCIAL SCIENCE, a pile of books fell over. The bookshelves creaked and cracked, the wind made the shutters slam, and the squeaky door made noise throughout the morning, as if it didn’t appreciate its own caretaker.

Beneath those books and scattered old papers and parchments, a figure poked out. At first, only the top of his head was visible, with pale blonde hair poking out from the stacks of books. Then, a neck wrapped in a brown plaid scarf appeared, followed by half a body covered in a thin beige loose cardigan. Underneath all those books was Conor.

Conor rose to his feet and straightened his shirt. He brushed his pants to remove the dust that had settled there. Conor looked at the empty shelf. The book wasn't there. Where had Preben Raphax said he kept it? Definitely not in this area. Conor picked up the fallen books and tidied them. He organized the papers and tucked them back into folders. Slowly, Conor made his way through the bookshelves and cabinets that reached up to the ceiling. He climbed the flight of stairs and followed it as it turned the corner and turned again.

Beyond the narrow hallway, Conor smelled the familiar scent of old wood. He turned off the alobrine lamp that was still on. When he came to an open window, he closed the shutters, grabbing the handle and finding it a bit cold. The autumn wind hit and jabbed at his face. Conor shuddered and raised his scarf, hiding beneath its warmth.

Conor hated this day, cold and quiet except for the sound of the annoyed library building, creaking and slamming, as if merging with his own mixed feelings. He didn't want to go out today, preferring to hide in his corner until the day turned into tomorrow. Unfortunately, Preben Raphax had told him to find an old book. Conor couldn't refuse the man; it was he, after all, who had given Conor a chance to live. Conor walked briskly, dragging his shoes on the wooden floor.

Conor arrived at the HISTORY section, the largest and most extensive collection. It was filled with old books, registers, and important royal archives. Preben Raphax had said that if it was not in the Social Science section, then it was definitely in the History section. Conor walked past leather-bound tomes and papers peeking out of cabinets and shelves. He looked around for some sort of compartment hiding behind the bookshelves but could not find one.

Conor swept his gaze across the large room. The morning light streamed in through the window and illuminated the dark room of compendiums, making him feel small among the hundreds of books on display. He had visited this place many times, but the archives and collections of Preben Raphax’s library were still simply overwhelming. Conor always felt dwarfed by them, insignificant—a black dot that someone had accidentally put on paper.

Conor shuffled past the wooden chairs and tables and came to sub-section XIX of the room, next to the desk facing the window. Outside, black raindrops fell heavily, soaking the ground and trees, the window sills dotted with dark drops. As the wind swayed the trees, Conor imagined how cold it would be if he stood outside. He recalled himself as a child, back then, in the cold of an alleyway, huddling for warmth. He blinked, returning to what he was looking for.

As Preben Raphax had said, there were several books covering the compartment, but Conor could see through them. The small cubicle had a convex lid that stood out among the books on the narrow shelf. Conor pushed aside the other books in the way and pulled out a key from his pants pocket. He inserted the intricately designed key into the small hole in the compartment and turned it. The partition made a sound. Conor pulled the handle, and at last, he found what he had been looking for.

The book had no title; it was leather-bound like the old books in the library. It was quite large, with two sturdy brass clasps decorated with intricate carvings of mythical creatures and botanical motifs, holding the book tightly closed as if guarding the secrets hidden within its pages. The clasp had fine filigree, a testament to the skillful hands of a craftsman of old. The book was thick, the paper damp. It was heavy, the pages a dull, aged hue, and each felt rough to the touch. Conor did not want to open it, partly because he did not want to damage the book, and partly because Preben Raphax had forbidden him to do so.

Conor tucked the book between his arm and started to leave the room.

With quick footsteps, Conor made his way to the librarian's quarters, a private apartment to the north of the library. He walked down the long hallway to a door at the end. He knocked on the door to indicate his presence, but there was no reply. Conor tried again, more forcefully this time, and when he finally heard a voice greet him, he entered.

The room served not only as a bedroom but also as a kitchen and study. Conor absorbed his surroundings, the familiar atmosphere he had known throughout his childhood until now. The morning sunlight filtered faintly through the dark curtains, reminding Conor how dusty they were when he hid there as a kid. An assortment of ornate vases and an intricately carved candlestick adorned the rectangular table, which dragged against the plush carpet beneath. Ceramics seemed to have taken firm root inside a display. The fireplace burned chunks of dry wood, and the jet velvet sofa felt uncomfortable to sit on. Someone's voice came from the radio above the bookcase, talking about a divination that Conor was not interested in hearing. Conor's gaze drifted to a leather reclining chair on the left side of the room, near a desk and some antique paintings.

There, a tall man sat on his long legs, wiping a vial of some kind of plant glowing a deep blue. His top hat stood proudly on his head, his crisp white shirt was covered by a black waistcoat and an equally dark coat. As usual, Conor had never been able to see his face; the man had it covered with a grinning gray mask.

"Did you find the book?" asked Preben Raphax as he stood and approached the bookcase. He reached for one of the drawer handles and placed the bottle into it, along with a collection of other bottles, Conor guessed.

"I got it," Conor said, waiting for Preben to turn and look at him. He was reluctant to sit down first.

"Stupendous." Preben spread his long arms as if to hug Conor, but Conor was sure that was not what he meant. "Really, son, I almost thought you wouldn't be able to find it, what with all the commotion. Come, sit down."

"I don't know why the library suddenly doesn't like me." Conor sat on the sofa, hugging the book tightly. He watched as Preben moved up the steps to the kitchen, his tall body having to duck as his hat almost hit the ceiling. He heavily dragged his hand, which seemed to float past Conor. The man reached for the teapot on the kitchen counter and poured herbal tea into a cup. The sound of water filled the silence for a moment.

"Mmhmm," the man muttered. "The old library doesn't like it when you take something that's been kept inside it for a long time. Like taking its heart."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Preben passed the cup to Conor with his thin, elongated fingers. Conor felt the odd herbal tea warm his hands as he placed the book on the table next to the vase. He frowned; there was something stuck in his throat that kept him from appreciating the tea in his hands.

The ever-knowing librarian tapped Conor on the shoulder. "It’s today, isn’t it?" His words brought uncomfortable feelings back to Conor’s chest. Conor felt a knot starting to rise up his throat, heavy and resinous.

Conor nodded, lifting the cup to the edge of his lips but not drinking. "It's my birthday," he said carelessly.

"Cheer up, you've managed to live this long. Isn't that quite an achievement?" Preben replied.

Conor nodded, though he wasn't sure himself. It was his birthday, but it didn't feel like one. There was no celebration, no festivities, and Conor wasn't expecting any guests in the library. The previous years had been the same, passing without any social gatherings. However, this time was supposed to be special, as it was his eighteenth birthday. An achievement, as his parents had never expected him to live to such an age.

Conor could feel Preben grinning at him, even though the mask he wore was grinning all the time. "That’s the spirit," he congratulated Conor.

"Well, now that you've got the book, I guess I'll skip to the good news and the bad news. Which one do you want to hear first?" Preben sat back in his chair with his legs crossed, confident and prepared.

Conor pulled a face. "Bad one first."

"I am unable to go to the exhibition at the city auditorium this afternoon," Preben explained.

The Annual City Exhibition was a chance for artisans and collectors to showcase their work. Conor had heard that many of Elision's important individuals would be in attendance, including the mayor, royal envoys, and members of the Council of Thirty. The organizers gave out invitations to people who would bring works and apparatuses to the exhibition. The selected ones would be displayed before the guests of honor. It was great for raising the prestige and fame of a person or a workplace.

Conor knew Preben Raphax had never received an invitation. His library was on the outskirts of the city of Elision, very close to the forest. The road to his place was rough and gravelly, narrow, unlike the wide cobblestone and concrete streets of the city. Past the dark, leafless trees of autumn, and up ahead was a gate that had an eerie dark color, soaring high above an adult’s head. Few patrons bothered to visit the library.

But three days ago, Preben approached Conor, who was reading. Conor sat in one of the corners in the fiction section, right beside a window. He had arranged chairs to cover his place in the corner and lined up cushions to make it comfortable. It was his favorite corner, where the light from outside was perfect for reading and writing, with the scent of wood and papers intermingling. He was surprised when Preben suddenly appeared in front of him, waving an envelope with a purple wax stamp and an image of a dragon flying over a jagged circle—the royal coat of arms. He was very close to Conor's face; his grinning gray mask gave Conor a foreboding look of horror. But Preben was clearly over the moon, with his thin, long-boned arms swinging, pleased that he had been chosen to display something at the exhibition.

But now, there seemed to be a change of plans.

Conor swallowed, then sipped his herbal tea slowly. He tasted the flavor of the tea, tangy like ginger. "What's the good news?"

Preben moved his feet. He leaned over while placing one hand on the arm of the chair. His grinning mask was darker than ever. "You are going to replace me there."

By now, the herbal tea wasn’t palatable anymore. Conor set it down on the long table. He gripped his loose shirt uneasily and made a sour face. There was a silence before Conor replied, "Are you sure? What if I screw up? I've never been to the auditorium before, let alone participated in an exhibition." Conor's mind began to wander.

"That should be no problem." Preben waved a hand as if dismissing the topic. For Preben, it was definitely not something to be bothered about. "All you have to do is bring some books, including the one you found, to the numbered table, show them to the guests, including the mayor, and you're done."

Then Preben immediately stood up and approached Conor, who felt the sofa dipping inward. Apparently, he had tried to back away, creating as much distance as possible between himself and Preben. The man leaned over, head to head with Conor now. His voice was light, ringing in Conor's ears. His breath smelled like sharp ginger tea. "The most important thing is that you do not lose the book, understand?"

As Conor nodded slowly, Preben straightened again, with his hands in his coat pockets. His top hat grazed the ceiling, slanting slightly on the man's head. Conor felt like he'd been held at gunpoint the whole time, and the feeling hadn't quite gone away. In the ten years he had lived in the library, this was the first time he felt like he was being haunted by something.

Preben was actually not too bad of a caretaker. He taught Conor to write and read and took care of the library, stocking books and reorganizing the archives. When there was nothing to do, Conor would read. He read in his corner, his favorite section being fiction, along with myths, legends, superstitions, and prophecies. Stories and works written by explorers and archives about the age of chaos. Goddess worship, as well as research into the nerves of magic.

Then, as if remembering something important, Conor spoke up knowingly.

"What time is it?"

"About half past ten," Preben said as he looked at his watch.

"Agh! I have to see Cecily!" Conor rose from his seat, putting the archaic book and the other ones into a suitcase.

"Is that your girlfriend?" Preben crossed his arms and leaned forward. Conor looked at him with a slight blush. He did not expect Preben to still remember what he had said in passing.

"Friend, right," Conor muttered, because beyond that he was still unsure.

"Ah, yes. That violinist girl, am I right?"

"Yeah."

Looking at Conor while thinking about something, Preben shrugged. "Do you like her?"

"Wh-what?" Conor choked up. His hand gripped the handle of the suitcase tighter. The question wasn't asked in an accusatory tone but merely out of curiosity. Conor thought for a moment. It had never crossed his mind, but he did admire the girl. Perhaps, what he felt was fondness.

Conor was about to reply to Preben before the man interrupted him, apparently not expecting an answer anymore.

"There is still time before the exhibition. Go out if you want," Preben said. "But remember, take good care of that book, alright?"

With a nod of his head, Conor replied. "I won't forget."

"Oh yeah, I almost forgot."

"Hm?"

"You know the significance of this day, don't you?" Preben asked. Conor nodded, even though he didn't want to dwell on it.

"Good. Then I expect you to stay alive on this day." Preben took another sip of his drink. Then, he continued solemnly, "And don't die."

That last part was said so flatly that Conor had no idea if Preben meant it or not. So Conor left the librarian's apartment in silence. He left the librarian's apartment in silence, quickly walking down the long hallway to grab an umbrella from the stand.

Sometimes, the rain in Elision would change color. Black ink-like, thick and goopy. Some said it was the true tears of the Goddess, others claimed the rain was the blood of the specters. The rainwater looked black as it fell, leaving fine marks on the skin that disappeared when wiped off.

Conor didn't want to dirty his clothes with black raindrops, so he opened his umbrella and walked with one hand carrying his caretaker’s suitcase, looking for the violinist girl.