The Secrets of the Shadowy Chamber, The Page That Writes Back

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The night was filled with a strange silence as Alondra entered the scribes' chamber. Here lay those manuscripts that were not read aloud because they made the listener the author themselves. Between desks littered with yellowed quills and encrusted inkwells stood a single table. On it lay a page—unbound, unenclosed. Just a loose leaf, moving ever so slightly with every breeze, as if it were breathing. She knew immediately that this was the page she had been warned about: the page that writes back. No seal, no title, just the empty space of parchment, which yet seemed heavier than stone. Alondra sat down, drew the lantern closer, and placed her hand on the table. The page was cool, but not dead—it vibrated faintly, like a string touched by an invisible finger. She took the quill. Her heart beat faster as she dipped the nib into the inkwell. The first stroke she drew was tentative, a simple arc. No sooner had she made it than the ink began to flow, as if obeying another's will. Words she hadn't written appeared next to her stroke: "Why are you searching?" Alondra stepped back. The page shone as if it were a mirror of moist skin. She forced herself to pick up the pen again. "Because I need answers," she wrote. No sooner was the sentence finished than an answer that wasn't hers formed beneath it: "And what will you give in return?" She felt a pressure in her chest, as if the page had read her. "A piece of me," she wrote finally, "but no more than I can spare." The page trembled, and new words appeared: "Every sentence is an exchange. Keep writing." Alondra understood that this wasn't an easy conversation. Every word she wrote took something from her—a memory, a laugh, a shadow of warmth. She wrote on the Index of Silent Prophets, on the silence that had shown her the way. The page answered: "Silence is the beginning. But the voice that is not yours will be the end." She paused. "Whose voice?" she asked. The pen moved of its own accord and wrote: "Mine." A shiver ran down her spine. The page began to mimic her writing. First, it was single words, then whole sentences that sounded as if she had composed them herself. But the thoughts were not hers—they spoke of things she didn't know, as if her hands were the tools of another's memory. The lantern flickered. Shadows crawled across the walls, and in those shadows, she saw figures: previous scribes who had lost their voices because the page had taken them over. Their lips moved to the rhythm of invisible words. Alondra took a deep breath. "When you write, write me what I need to know." The pen twitched, and the page filled with a single line: "The end of the voice lies in the mirror of the page." She didn't understand immediately. But then she saw that the ink was no longer black. It reflected her face, and that face began to change. At first, it was just a strange expression, then a different brow, a different chin.