The Library of...

John Thompson blinked awake, his vision slowly adjusting to the thick, enveloping fog that surrounded him. He sat up, his head pounding with a dull ache, and looked around.

The city was deserted, the streets eerily silent. Buildings loomed out of the mist, their shapes distorted and ghostly. John had no memory of how he got here, or why he was alone, but something about it felt awfully familiar.

The name Sarah sprung to his consciousness, and as John tried to put a face to the name, rain began to fall from the heavens above.

He reached up to brush at wet brown curls that filtered into his eyes, pricking them uncomfortably. John pushed himself to his feet, dusting off his worn jeans and adjusting his graphic tee, which bore a witty quote from one of his favourite authors—Not all those who wander are lost, J. R. R. Tolkein.

As he stood there, a strange sensation washed over him. It was as if something was calling to him, pulling him in a specific direction. He turned, and through the fog, he saw it.

Down the cobblestoned streets, devoid of life, a grand ancient-looking structure appeared. Its Gothic architecture, with towering spires and intricate stone carvings, beckoned him closer.

Despite the eerie, almost otherworldly feel of the place, John felt a flicker of recognition, a whisper of familiarity that he couldn’t quite grasp. Driven by this inexplicable pull, he started walking towards the structure, his footsteps echoing in the empty streets.

The closer he got, the more details he could make out. The massive wooden doors were slightly ajar, creaking as they moved with the faint breeze. The windows were tall and narrow, filled with stained glass that depicted scenes he couldn’t quite discern through the mist. Letters were carved into the stone, reading, St. Bernaldo Library.

John hesitated for a moment at the threshold, his hand hovering over the door handle. He took a deep breath, his curiosity and the strange sense of déjà vu edging him forward. With a gentle push, the door swung open, and he stepped inside, leaving the fog-covered city behind.

The interior of the library was vast and dimly lit, with towering bookshelves that seemed to stretch infinitely upward and outward. The air was cool and filled with the musty scent of old books, a smell that John found oddly comforting. He let the heavy wooden door close behind him.

As he took in his surroundings, John felt a sense of awe mixed with unease. The library was silent, shattered by the soft whispers of pages turning. However, he couldn’t see anyone else around.

The high windows allowed slivers of light to filter through, casting long shadows and creating a play of light on the dark oak floor.

John wandered through the aisles, running his fingers along the spines of the books. Many of the titles were worn and faded, but he could make out enough to see that the library’s collection was vast and eclectic. Classic literature, ancient texts, modern novels, and obscure manuscripts all shared space on the shelves.

He paused in front of a particularly old and ornate bookshelf, its wood etched with age and intricately carved with symbols he didn’t recognize. There was something about this section that felt different, more significant. As he continued to explore, he noticed a faint, almost imperceptible hum emanating from somewhere deep within the library.

Drawn by the sound, John moved deeper into the maze of bookshelves. He passed rows and rows of books, each one tempting him to stop and read, but the hum grew louder, guiding him onward. He rounded a corner and found himself in a secluded section of the library.

The secluded section was marked by a faded wooden sign that read The Trials of St. Bernaldo Library. The letters were carved with a precision that suggested great care and reverence. John’s heart quickened with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. He reached out and touched the sign, tracing the letters with his fingers.

He turned his attention to the books on the shelves. Unlike the rest of the library, these books had no titles on their spines. Instead, each book had a small, neatly written label attached to its cover. John pulled out a random book and read the label.

Sarah T. June 3, 1997.

He opened the book and scanned the first few pages. To his amazement, it detailed personal memories—specific moments and thoughts from Sarah’s life. John read about her first day of school, her childhood dreams, and her favourite places. It was as if someone had transcribed the contents of her mind onto the pages.

John turned to the last page and let his eyes trace over the black ink.

Sarah T. has not passed the trial.

Realization struck him. This section of the library held the memories of everyone who had ever entered. A chill ran down his spine, with a mix of curiosity and fear. He carefully placed the book back on the shelf and looked around, his mind racing with questions.

Driven by an urge to understand more, John moved quickly but methodically, scanning each label as he walked down the aisles. After what felt like an eternity, he found exactly what he was searching for.

Standing motionless, his hand trembled slightly as he pulled it from the shelf and read the words repeatedly—as if they would somehow vanish if he tore his gaze from them.

John Thompson.

He opened the book, and as he began to read, vivid memories flooded back. He saw himself as a child, devouring books in his hometown library, his parents’ faces, and his younger sister, Ellie, laughing at one of his jokes. He remembered his love for writing, the hours spent crafting stories, and the thrill of finishing his first novel draft. Then he saw more recent memories—visiting this very library, feeling the same sense of déjà vu, and a woman named Sarah, whose face was a blur but whose presence felt deeply significant.

John’s heart pounded as he read further, realizing that he had visited the library multiple times. The recognition was overwhelming, and he felt a mixture of excitement and dread. He had to understand why this was happening and what it all meant.

As he closed the book, he noticed a faint glow coming from deeper within the secluded section. Compelled by curiosity, he followed the light, hoping it would lead him to more answers about the library and his own past.

He navigated narrow aisles, feeling a growing sense of urgency. The memories he'd just read were like puzzle pieces, but the picture was still incomplete. He needed to find the source of the light and the answers it might hold.

The glow led him to a small, unmarked door hidden behind a row of shelves. It was old and ornate, with intricate carvings similar to those on the bookshelf. Taking a deep breath, John pushed the door open.

The room was unlike any other in the library. It was circular, with shelves that curved along the walls, filled with books that seemed to pulse with energy. In the centre of the room stood a pedestal, upon which lay an ancient-looking book, its cover adorned with mysterious symbols that seemed to shift and change as he looked at them.

John approached the pedestal, feeling the hum intensify. He reached out and touched the book—a surge of warmth spread through his fingers. He opened it and began to read, hoping to find more about his past and the library's secrets.

The book detailed a hidden section known as the Sanctum of Erasure, a place where the most powerful memories were stored and guarded. It spoke of a guardian, a cloaked figure responsible for protecting these memories from those who sought to misuse them. The guardian had the power to erase memories to maintain the library's sanctity.

John continued to read the ancient book, piecing together the clues about the Sanctum’s location. The book mentioned specific artifacts that acted as keys, scattered throughout the library, each linked to significant memories of past visitors.

John retraced his steps through the library, searching for these artifacts.

The first clue led him to a small, dusty alcove in a forgotten corner of the library. He found a delicate, old locket on a velvet cushion. As he picked it up, he was overwhelmed by a rush of memories—Sarah’s laughter, their shared dreams, and the day she vanished without a trace.

He continued his search, guided by the faint memories that surfaced with each step. His journey took him to various sections of the library, each filled with books and artifacts that stirred fragments of his past.

John found a fountain pen in the poetry section, a diary in the travel section, and a pair of old spectacles in the history section. Each artifact brought back memories—his first published poem, a trip he had taken with Sarah, and long conversations about history and philosophy. These items, seemingly mundane, were pieces of his lost life, and together, they formed a clearer picture.

As he gathered the artifacts, John noticed a pattern—each memory involved Sarah. She was the common thread that tied his past together. The realization hit him hard—Sarah’s disappearance was linked to this somehow.

With the artifacts in hand, John felt a sense of anticipation and fear. He returned to the circular room where he had found the ancient book. As he placed each artifact on the pedestal, the room began to change. The shelves shifted, and the floor beneath him rumbled. A hidden door slowly revealed itself behind the pedestal.

John pushed the door open and stepped into the Sanctum of Erasure. The room was bathed in a soft, ethereal light, with walls covered in flowing, glowing script that seemed to move like a living tapestry. In the centre of the room stood a large, ornate chest, and next to it, a figure cloaked in shadows.

The Librarian emerged from the darkness, their presence both intimidating and sorrowful. The Librarian's face was partially hidden, but John could see shimmering golden eyes peering at him.

"You shouldn't have come here," the Librarian said, their voice a blend of authority and sadness.

John squared his shoulders, clutching the locket tightly. "I need to know the truth. What is this place? What happened to Sarah?"

The Librarian sighed, stepping closer. "The library exists to protect powerful memories and prevent them from being misused. Your visits, and your love for Sarah triggered a series of events that put the sanctity of these memories at risk. Sarah’s disappearance was a consequence of those events."

John's heart sank. "What events? Why not just tell me instead of taking my memories?"

"Some truths are too dangerous to remember," the Librarian replied. "But your determination has brought you here, and now you must decide what to do with the knowledge you've uncovered."

John looked around the Sanctum, his mind racing. He felt the weight of the artifacts and the memories they represented. He realized that the answers he sought were within his grasp, but they came with a price.

Determined to uncover the full truth, John stepped towards the chest, ready to unlock the final pieces of his past and confront the guardian of the library head-on.

As John approached the chest in the Sanctum of Erasure, the Librarian watched him carefully. The air in the room seemed to dissolve, as if the very walls were holding their breath.

With a steady hand, John reached out and opened the chest. Inside, he found a collection of ancient scrolls and artifacts, each radiating a faint glow. As he examined them, he felt a surge of power coursing through him, as if the memories contained within were alive and waiting to be unleashed.

But before he could delve deeper, the Librarian stepped forward, blocking his path. "You cannot go any further," they said, their voice firm but tinged with sadness. "The memories contained within the chest are too dangerous. They hold the key to unlocking the full truth, but they also carry great risk."

John's resolve wavered for a moment as he looked into the Librarian's eyes. He saw the weight of centuries of guardianship, the burden of protecting the library's secrets from those who would misuse them. But he also saw a glimmer of something else—compassion, perhaps, or a shared sense of loss.

"But I have to know," John said, his voice steady despite the uncertainty gnawing at him. "I need to understand what happened to Sarah.”

The Librarian hesitated, then nodded, as if rehearsed. "Very well," they said. "But know that the truth may not be what you expect. Sometimes, ignorance is a kindness."

With that, the Librarian stepped aside, allowing John to approach the chest once more. He took a deep breath, steadying himself for whatever revelations lay ahead, and reached out to take hold of the nearest scroll.

The Librarian shook his head as John unrolled the scroll. He read the words inscribed on the ancient parchment, each line revealing a fragment of his past and the events that had led him to this moment.

He saw flashes of his life with Sarah—their first meeting, their shared dreams, their moments of joy and laughter and love. But intertwined with these memories were darker, more sinister visions—her disappearance, the hidden agendas, and the secrets that had torn them apart.

As he read on, the truth became clear. Sarah’s disappearance was not a random event but a deliberate act, orchestrated by those who sought to manipulate the power of the library for their own gain. John's repeated visits to the library had triggered a series of events that put Sarah in danger, and his memories had been erased to protect her and the library's secrets.

The realization hit him like a physical blow, shattering the fragile illusion of his past. He felt a wave of grief and guilt wash over him, the weight of his actions and the consequences they had wrought bearing down on him like a crushing weight.

But even as despair threatened to consume him, a spark of defiance flared within John's heart. He refused to let the truth destroy him, refused to let the darkness win. With a steady breath, he gathered his strength and prepared to face whatever lay ahead.

The Librarian stiffened. ‘I am sorry, but you have failed your trial,’ they said.

‘What trial?’ John questioned, retreating and allowing there to be a respectable amount of distance between them.

‘I am sorry John Thompson,’ The Librarian said.

Without hesitating, John sprinted through the library, the memories of his past and the weight of his newfound knowledge weighed heavily on him. John heard the hissing whispers of the Librarian mumbling something, followed with a rumble that shook the walls and caused books to fall from the shelves around him, but he didn’t think much of it. As long as he got out of St. Bernaldo Library, the Librarian could not take his memories.

With each step, he felt a sense of purpose growing within him, a determination to break free from the cycle of loss and betrayal and forge his own path forward.

As he rushed out into the fog-covered city once more, he knew that the journey was far from over. But he also knew that he was not alone—that he carried within him the strength of his memories, the power of his love, and the resilience of his spirit.

As he ran through the fog, his memories began to fade, slipping away like grains of sand through his fingers. He clutched his head, trying desperately to hold onto the threads of an unknown past to no prevail.

He tripped, tumbling to the hard stone below.

John Thompson blinked awake, his vision slowly adjusting to the thick, enveloping fog that surrounded him. He sat up, his head pounding with a dull ache, and looked around.

The city was deserted, the streets eerily silent. Buildings loomed out of the mist, their shapes distorted and ghostly. John had no memory of how he got here, or why he was alone, but something about it felt awfully familiar.