The Archive Beneath the Tower

More about The Archive Beneath the Tower

The tower had many paths – but only one led downward. Mollie discovered it behind a narrow segment of wall that fanned out at the touch, like a mechanical flower. Gears clicked open, hinges whirred softly, as if the masonry had been waiting for him. Behind it: a staircase that didn't simply lead downward, but into another density. As if the space there breathed more slowly. The steps were made of old glass, with tiny gears cast into them – with each step, they seemed to turn quietly, as if Mollie herself were winding something up, step by step, a clockwork that followed him. The light here was sluggish. It didn't flow, it groped. He felt the air grow heavier with each turn. Not oppressive – more full of stories. Whispers hovered in the shadows, words leaning against the walls, sentences without language. And yet Mollie understood them. Or thought she did. After endless spirals, a hall opened up—as large as a forgotten thought. The floor was made of polished metal, so smooth it reflected the sky, which didn't exist here. The walls? None. Only darkness falling inward. There was no shelf. No books. No writings. And yet: memories were everywhere. They hung in the air like the finest threads, floating in spherical containers in which patterns of light trembled. Some whispered when one passed close, others retreated like shy animals. Some dripped like liquid glass into invisible vessels. It was an archive—not of matter, but of moments. Mollie stepped cautiously further inside. Every step was a plunge. The air hummed around him, brushing against him as if testing his identity. A faint click began, somewhere in the room—as if someone were activating a sequence intended only for him. An ancient device on three legs stepped out. It was rusty, but its glass lens was clear as first water. Gears protruded from its casing, a tiny pendulum swung within. Without words, it pointed Mollie the way—to a holder in which an empty vessel floated. Barely visible, barely there. Mollie stepped closer. Inside: nothing. And yet... a pulling sensation. A space that looked back at him. As he reached out, an image slowly formed in the sphere: a small boy with sunglasses, in an oversized coat, running across a meadow covered with gears. The sky was made of parchment, the birds of ink. And Mollie knew: this had never happened. And yet it was there. He bent down closer. In the background of the scene, a tower of clock hands turned, and with each revolution, small fragments of time broke away, floated away, and sank into invisible shafts. The boy ran, laughed, jumped—but his shadow remained behind, standing still and waving. Behind him, more vessels were now humming.