The ink on the letter is fading. You know this because you have watched it happen for three days. It was black when you received it. Now it is the color of dried blood. Then rust. Then nothing. You hold the parchment in your hands, the paper brittle as a dead leaf, and you feel the words slipping away from you like sand through fingers. This is the curse. You did not choose it. But you carry it now.

You are in the carriage. It shakes. The wheels rattle over the cobblestones of the old town. Outside, the fog is thick. It presses against the glass. You cannot see the street. You cannot see the people. You can only feel the movement. The driver, a man named Thomas, does not speak. He sits hunched over the reins. His hands are white knuckles. He knows what you are. He knows why you are here. He is your ally. He is the only one who has not looked at you with fear. Or pity. He looks at you with a kind of tired respect.

You are an exile. You left your home in the north. You left your family. You left your name. You are no one. You are a vessel for the text. The text is a protocol. A way to speak to the things that live in the dark. You found it in your father’s study. He had been dead for ten years. You found it in a box. The box was locked. You had the key. You opened it. You read the first page. And the world changed.

The carriage stops. The door opens. The cold air rushes in. It smells of coal smoke and wet stone. You step out. Your legs are stiff. You are old. Your body is a ruin. But your mind is sharp. Your mind is a blade. You must use it. You must find the source. You must stop the bleeding. The protocol is spreading. It is moving through the mail. It is moving through the minds of men. You are the last one who can read it. But you are losing it. The words are wearing away. They are dissolving into the air.

You walk into the building. It is a library. The old library. The one where your father worked. The doors are heavy. They are made of oak. They smell of dust and decay. You push them open. They creak. The sound echoes in the empty hall. You are alone. There are no other people. There are no librarians. There are no students. There is only the silence. And the shelves. The shelves rise up like walls. They are filled with books. Thousands of books. Millions. But they are empty. The pages are blank. Or they are full of water. Or they are full of ash.

You walk down the aisle. Your shoes click on the floor. The sound is loud. It is too loud. You feel watched. You feel the eyes of the dead. They are looking at you. They are judging you. You did this. You brought the curse here. You brought the end. You must fix it. You must find the origin. The first book. The one that started it all.

You find it in the back. In the deepest part of the library. The room is small. It is circular. The walls are covered in mirrors. In the center, there is a table. On the table, there is a book. It is black. It is bound in leather. The leather is cracked. It is old. It is very old. You recognize it. You have seen it before. In your dreams. In your father’s eyes.

You approach the table. Your hands are shaking. You reach out. You touch the cover. It is cold. It is wet. You open the book. The pages are white. They are clean. There are no words. But you know what they say. You have memorized them. You have carried them in your heart. You have carried them in your blood.

You read the first line.

"Let the light be your guide."

The mirrors flash. The room spins. You see yourself. You see your father. You see your sister, Eleanor. She is young. She is beautiful. She is smiling. She is holding a letter. The same letter. The one you are holding now. She is reading it. She is weeping. The ink on her letter is black. It is strong. It is permanent.

You realize then. The truth. The terrible truth. You are not the exile. You are not the victim. You are the source. You are the one who wrote the protocol. You wrote it to save your sister. She was sick. She was dying. You thought the words could heal her. You thought they could bring her back. But the words were hungry. They fed on the reader. They fed on the mind. They turned the reader into a ghost. A vessel. A carrier.

Your father knew. He saw what you were doing. He tried to stop you. He locked the box. He hid the key. But you found it. You read it. And you became the first victim. You became the first ghost. You have been wandering for twenty years. You have been writing letters. You have been sending them to people you love. To people who will read them. To people who will become you.

You look at the mirror. You see your face. It is not your face. It is a mask. It is a shell. Underneath, there is nothing. There is only the ink. The ink is wearing away. You are wearing away. You are almost gone.

You look at the letter in your hand. It is blank. It is white. The words are gone. You are free. But you are alone. You are empty. You have lost yourself. You have lost your name. You have lost your life.

You close the book. You walk out of the room. You walk down the aisle. The silence is heavy. It is thick. It is real. You feel it in your bones. You feel it in your soul. You are not a man. You are a shadow. You are a memory. You are a mistake.

You reach the door. You open it. The fog is still there. It is thick. It is cold. You step out. The carriage is waiting. Thomas is there. He looks at you. His eyes are sad. He knows. He has always known.

"Is it done?" he asks.

His voice is quiet. It is soft. It is kind.

You nod. You cannot speak. Your voice is gone. You are only the ink. And the ink is gone.

You climb into the carriage. You sit down. The door closes. The carriage starts to move. The wheels rattle. The fog swallows you. You are gone. You are free. You are nothing.

But you are not alone.

In the city, in a small apartment, a young woman opens a letter. The paper is white. The ink is black. It is strong. It is permanent. She reads the first line.

"Let the light be your guide."

Her eyes widen. She feels a chill. She feels a pull. She feels a hunger. She knows what she has to do. She knows who she is. She is the next one. She is the vessel. She is the carrier.

She folds the letter. She puts it in her pocket. She goes to the window. She looks out at the city. The lights are on. The people are moving. The world is turning. She is ready. She is waiting. She is afraid. But she is brave.

She takes out her pen. She takes out her paper. She begins to write.

The ink is black.

The ink is strong.

The ink is permanent.