The Archive of Never-Written Lines

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The wind in the corridors of Schreckenstein Castle had changed. It no longer sounded like a random sigh, but like a deliberate whisper—as if the walls wanted to whisper something to Elias. Since the dungeon, a new sense of hearing had awakened within him, a listening for what wasn't said. Even his cat rarely left his side. In the north tower, he came across a tapestry whose woven thread dissolved into writing. Behind it lay a door from which a dry draft of air flowed. Elias pushed it open and entered. A hall opened, tall as a church, filled with silence. Shelves stretched endlessly, but instead of books, there were only blank sheets of parchment, unwritten scrolls, and volumes. No rustling, no scent of ink—only a tense anticipation, as if the pages were waiting to be filled with meaning. Elias lifted one of the sheets. In the light of his lantern, fine shadows seemed to lie upon it—no words, but traces of sentences almost thought, then forgotten. His cat leaped onto a pedestal stone upon which lay a book with a golden cover. Elias opened it—empty. Yet the parchment vibrated beneath his fingers. Beside the book lay a quill pen, beside it a small glass inkwell, its contents shimmering silver like smoke. Hesitantly, he dipped the nib. The ink swirled vividly around the nib. As he applied it, a line formed as if by itself: "The voices never born wait in the sleep of the pages." Elias held his breath. The quill guided his hand, and he wrote, not knowing what. Stories flowed from him, as if the castle had entrusted him with its memories. Around him, the space began to change: pages rustled, loose leaves rose into the air, forming spirals. The writing in the air was only fleetingly visible—words made of ink and dust. His cat hissed. The wind in the hall wasn't one of air, but of meaning. The leaves brushed Elias's cheeks, and fleeting voices whispered, "I was meant... write me to the end..." Then, with a grinding sound, a section of the back wall opened. Behind it lay a small chamber, barely larger than a cell. In its center hovered a book—without a cover, enveloped in shimmering light. No title adorned it, only an empty frame. Elias stepped closer. His cat froze, crouched, but stayed. When his fingers brushed the book, it whispered, "Whoever dares to name me fills themselves with emptiness." Startled, he withdrew his hand. But a soft glow remained on his fingertips, as if something invisible had clung to it. He turned around—and saw that the shelves had changed. Some pages now bore writing, others were missing. In the golden book that had first lain on the pedestal, a final line had appeared: "Keep what was not spoken, and never forget why it was silent." Elias closed it slowly. The lantern was almost extinguished, but the light now came from the pages themselves. His cat purred softly. With the quill and silver ink in his pocket, he left the archive. The door slid shut behind him—silently, like a memory hiding itself again.