The Archivist barely had time to catch his breath before the rumbling started again. Radit held the notebook tight, scribbling more words just to keep the shelves from flickering out of existence.
"This place won't hold forever," the Archivist hissed. "We need to get out of this room. There's a safer level, deeper down. Some parts of the city's memory are more stable there."
Radit followed him through a narrow doorway, glancing over his shoulder as the shelves shivered and faded in and out like ghosts. The tunnel ahead sloped downward, lit by weak yellow bulbs strung along the ceiling. They walked in tense silence, the sound of their hurried footsteps echoing in the hollow corridor.
Then, from up ahead, Radit heard another sound: the soft rustle of fabric, and quiet sobbing.
He glanced at the Archivist, who frowned. They rounded a bend and stopped.
In the middle of the corridor sat a girl, hugging her knees to her chest. A bright red scarf hung around her neck, the ends torn and dirty. Her eyes were wide and raw with fear, staring at the cracked floor beneath her feet. Around her, tiny fissures spread like veins, glowing faintly.
"Who…" Radit whispered. "Who is she?"
The Archivist shook his head. "I don't know. I thought we were alone down here."
Slowly, Radit stepped closer. "Hey… are you okay?"
The girl looked up sharply, startled. For a moment, her eyes flashed with something wild — suspicion, terror — but then they softened. Her voice came out hoarse. "It won't stop," she whispered. "The ground keeps cracking. Everything's… going away."
Radit knelt beside her. Up close, he could see the dirt and grime on her face, streaked with tears. "What's your name?"
"Tamari," she breathed, clutching the ends of her scarf. "I… I woke up in my apartment and it was gone. The floor just… dissolved. Then I was falling. I thought I'd died. But I landed here."
Radit's chest tightened. He glanced at the Archivist, who was studying the glowing cracks warily. "She's like me," Radit said. "It's happening to her too."
The Archivist grunted. "Maybe. Or maybe she's bait. Sometimes… the city tries to trap us. It can mimic people. Memories. Even feelings."
"I'm real!" Tamari shouted suddenly. The fissures around her pulsed brighter, making the ground tremble. "I'm real, I swear!"
Radit reached out and grabbed her shoulder. "I believe you," he whispered. "Look… we can get through this. We just have to keep moving."
Tamari's eyes darted between them. "Who are you?"
"I'm Radit," he said, forcing a small smile. "And this is… the Archivist."
She glanced at the older man, who merely grunted again and turned away. "I don't trust him," Tamari whispered.
"Neither do I," Radit whispered back, casting a quick glance at the Archivist's hunched back. "But for now… he's all we've got."
The Archivist coughed. "If you two are done bonding, we need to move. These cracks… they're spreading. If they reach the structural supports of this corridor, we'll fall into the blank space again."
Tamari clutched Radit's arm as they hurried on. Her grip was surprisingly strong, her breath ragged and shallow. "I saw something," she whispered in Radit's ear. "In the dark, when I landed. A… shape. Like a person, but… hollow. It was watching me."
Radit swallowed hard. "I saw something too," he whispered back. "Voices. Messages in the walls. I don't know what any of it means."
Behind them, the cracks hissed and spat, a soft static noise filling the corridor like distant radio chatter.
They reached another door — metal, rusted, slightly ajar. The Archivist shoved it open and motioned them inside.
The room beyond was larger, lined with empty bookshelves. In the center stood a metal table, scattered with half-burned papers. An old lamp flickered on the table, casting a pale glow.
"This will hold for now," the Archivist said. He slammed the door shut and dragged a heavy cabinet in front of it. "But not for long."
Tamari sank onto the floor, trembling. Radit knelt beside her again. "It's okay," he said softly. "You're safe here. For now."
She looked up at him with wet eyes. "Why is this happening?" she whispered.
Radit shook his head. "I don't know. But… I think it has something to do with us. With people who… who write, or remember."
The Archivist crossed the room, pulling out a stack of papers from beneath the table. "I've been trying to figure it out," he said quietly. "For years. The city doesn't just collapse randomly. It… listens. Reacts. Like it's alive."
Tamari wiped her eyes. "Alive? How can a city be alive?"
The Archivist met her gaze, his face grave. "Maybe it's not the city itself," he said. "Maybe it's the idea of the city. The sum of everyone's memories, fears, and hopes. The stories they tell themselves every day. And maybe… it's falling apart because those stories are falling apart."
Radit felt a chill crawl up his spine. He glanced at Tamari, who clutched her scarf tighter. "Then… what do we do?" Radit asked.
The Archivist handed him a stack of blank paper and a pencil. "We write," he said. "But this time, we do it together. Carefully. Intentionally. Every word is a stitch in the fabric of this place."
Tamari's voice was small but firm. "Then teach me," she whispered. "I want to help. I… I don't want to watch everything disappear."
Radit nodded slowly, looking at the pencil in his hand. He could feel the room trembling around them, the cracks whispering at the edge of hearing.
*We write,* he thought. *And maybe… we can hold the darkness back. Together.*