The Untitled Book

More about The Untitled Book

Continuation of Mirea's story
The forest had receded, but it had never left. Mirea could still feel it in her fingertips, in the tips of her hair, in the way the air smelled—of moss, ink, and memory. She sat at the table in the clearing she had found in the heart of the forest. It was made of old wood, with veins that looked like maps—as if someone had drawn paths into the grain that only she could read. On it: books. Without titles, without covers, without words. And yet not empty. They sometimes moved slightly, as if they were breathing. He, her cat, slept on one of the books, warm enough to make him dream. He purred softly—a sound that mingled with the sound of the forest. In front of Mirea lay the largest of the books. Black leather, lightly scaled like tree bark after rain. No title. No lock. Just a gold ribbon that had come undone by itself when she touched it. She opened it. The pages were blank – and yet: there was something. A movement. A whisper beneath the surface. As if ink lived there, only invisible. Beside her lay a quill. No ordinary one. It was woven from smoke and light, as light as a feather, yet with the weight of a decision. Mirea didn't hesitate. She plunged it into the nothingness before her – and began to write. With every word she placed on the page, the air around her flickered. The grass grew thicker. The leaves above her moved in time with the sentences. And from the shadows of the trees, figures emerged. At first they were only silhouettes. Mists in the form of questions. Then they took on eyes, mouths, voices. Mirea didn't know them – and yet she knew she had called them. "What is happening here?" she asked quietly. He blinked sleepily. "You give the forest a voice. Every book you write is a gateway that reads back." "Reads back?" "It reads you, Mirea. And it answers." One of the figures approached. It had no face, only a veil of light. In its hand, it held a book. The same as the one before Mirea. Open. The same pages. Only... mirrored. "What you write shapes us," the figure said. "And what we are finds you." "Who are you?" "The readers of your memories. The guardians of your future." The page beneath Mirea's pen began to glow. Words appeared that she hadn't written: "What you fear is yourself in the dark. What you seek is your name in the silence." Mirea paused. "I know my name." "Do you really know it?" whispered the forest. It purred louder. "You've heard it, but never spoken it." The books whispered. Pages turned by themselves. Faster and faster. And the large book before her lifted slightly—as if it wanted to fly. Then, with a jerk, everything was silent. Mirea looked up. The figures had disappeared.