The floorboards groan. You feel it in your teeth. A high, thin vibration that travels up the jaw and settles in the bone. It is a sound you know well. You have known it for forty years. You are standing in the library. The air is still. Dust motes drift in the pale beam of the window. They hang suspended like frozen insects. You reach for the book. It is heavy. The spine cracks. You pull it from the shelf. The weight is sudden. It presses against your chest. You open it. The pages are brittle. They yellow in the light. You read the first line. You know what it says. You have always known.

Your hands shake. The skin is thin. The veins are blue ropes under the surface. You are an archivist. You have cataloged the dead. You have sorted their lives into boxes. You have labeled the years. You have numbered the regrets. You think you are safe. You think you are detached. You are wrong. The knowledge is in your blood. It is a parasite. It feeds on your certainty. It eats your sleep. It digests your soul. You look at the mirror on the wall. Your face is strange. The eyes are wide. The mouth is open. You do not recognize the person staring back. He looks old. He looks tired. He looks broken. You touch the glass. It is cold. The reflection does not touch back.

The building is old. The stone is damp. The walls sweat. There is a smell of rot. It is in the books. It is in the wood. It is in you. You work here. You are the head. The others listen. They nod. They ask questions. You do not answer. You point. You guide. You direct. They are your tools. They are your mirrors. They reflect your power. They reflect your fear. You see it in their eyes. They see it in yours. You are a machine. You process the data. You archive the pain. You store the loss. You keep it safe. You keep it hidden. You keep it locked away.

The sun sets. The shadows lengthen. The library becomes a cave. You close the book. You put it back on the shelf. You walk to the door. You do not leave. You cannot leave. The walls are closing in. The air is thick. You breathe hard. The noise in your head is loud. It is a roar. It is a scream. It is the sound of time running out. You stop. You turn around. You look at the shelves. They are tall. They are dark. They are full. They are waiting. You see the gap. The space where the book was. It is empty. It is a hole. It is a wound. You reach out. You pull another book. It is similar. It is darker. The cover is black. You open it. The pages are blank. You turn them. They are all blank. You turn them faster. They are all blank. You drop the book. It hits the floor. The sound is a slap. You stare at it. It stares back.

You are not alone. You hear footsteps. They are slow. They are heavy. They are coming up the stairs. You freeze. You hold your breath. The footsteps stop. They are at the door. The handle turns. The door opens. Light floods in. It is blinding. It is white. It is pure. A figure stands in the doorway. It is a woman. She is small. She is frail. She is wearing white. Her hair is silver. Her eyes are black. She looks at you. She does not blink. She walks in. The door closes behind her. The light disappears. The dark returns. She is here. She is with you. She does not speak. She walks to the center of the room. She stops. She looks at the book on the floor. She looks at you. She raises her hand. She points at you. You understand. You are the book. You are the page. You are the word. You are the lie.

She smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a kind smile. It is a final smile. She extends her arm. You do not move. You cannot move. She touches your face. Her fingers are cold. They are dry. They feel like paper. She traces your jaw. She traces your cheek. She traces your eye. You see the truth. It is not in the book. It is in you. You are the archive. You are the record. You are the memory. You have been keeping it for yourself. You have been hoarding it. You have been eating it. You are starving. You are full. You are empty. You are everything. She pulls her hand away. She steps back. She looks at the door. She looks at you. She nods. It is a command. It is a permission. It is a release.

You look at your hands. They are changing. The skin is turning to paper. The veins are turning to ink. The bones are turning to spines. You feel the pain. It is sharp. It is hot. It is bright. You cry out. The sound is silent. No one hears it. You are alone. You are free. You are lost. The woman walks to the door. She opens it. The light floods in again. It is warm. It is golden. It is soft. She steps out. The door closes. The light fades. The dark returns. You are alone. You are the book. You are the page. You are the word. You are the lie.

The pain stops. The fear stops. The time stops. You are still. You are solid. You are real. You look at the mirror. Your face is clear. Your eyes are bright. Your mouth is closed. You recognize the person staring back. He looks young. He looks strong. He looks whole. You touch the glass. It is warm. The reflection touches back. You smile. It is a sad smile. It is a kind smile. It is a final smile. You turn around. You walk to the shelf. You pick up the book. It is heavy. It is light. It is yours. You open it. The pages are full. They are black. They are white. They are you. You close the book. You put it on the shelf. You walk to the door. You open it. The light is there. It is waiting. It is for you. You step out. The door closes. The light swallows you.

You are gone. The library is empty. The air is still. The dust motes drift. They hang suspended. They are frozen. They are dead. They are alive. The shelves stand tall. They stand dark. They stand full. They wait. They are patient. They are hungry. They are ready. The floorboards groan. The sound is high. The sound is thin. It travels up the jaw. It settles in the bone. It is a sound of warning. It is a sound of loss. It is a sound of end. The building stands. The stone is damp. The walls sweat. The smell of rot lingers. It is in the books. It is in the wood. It is in the air. It is in the dark. It is in the silence. It is in the nothing. It is in the everything. The library sleeps. The library dreams. The library remembers. The library forgets. The library is. The library is not. The library is you. The library is me. The library is us. The library is gone. The library is here. The library is now. The library is then. The library is never. The library is always. The library is. The library is. The library is.