Korn returned home exhausted after a long day of work. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. A voice called from the kitchen:
"Korn, is that you?"
"Yeah, I'm back."
"Go to your room, dinner's still on the stove."
"Alright."
He went upstairs, opened his room door and shut it behind him, set his bag aside, changed out of his clothes, and stepped into the shower.
After a quick wash, he put on something comfortable and sat on his bed scrolling through his phone. As he flipped through the posts, a video popped up: a café exploding from the inside, flames rising, people fleeing in panic, swallowed by chaos and scorched by tongues of fire.
Police arrived quickly and blocked filming. Then the video cut off abruptly.
— As usual. Something's off. A whole month of incidents. And the government? They say: "Terrorists." But… are they really?
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door, and his mother's voice calling:
"Dinner's ready, and your father's back. Come down."
"I'm coming."
Her footsteps faded, and Korn rose, heading to the living room, where his parents were waiting. He sat down and glanced at the dishes: casserole, "Taco Night," and a side salad. His appetite flared instantly, and he began eating in silence.
During dinner, his mother suddenly asked:
"When will you get married? You're twenty-seven, haven't you had enough of living with us?"
He stopped chewing and looked at her.
"Mom, please… don't think I don't want to get married. I just haven't found the right woman yet. You know, marriage isn't a game. And it's not like I'm tired of living with you two. But don't worry, once I find someone worth it… I'll leave right away. Just don't miss me too much."
His father laughed and said:
"Alright, alright, leave him be. You've been asking him too much lately."
She shot him a sharp look.
"I'm not pressuring him, but we won't be here forever. He needs to find someone to share his life with, someone to come home to every evening."
"Mom, don't talk about death, not you or Dad. You'll live long, maybe I'll even die before you both. So don't worry about me."
His father chuckled again, then said:
"Let's drop the marriage talk for now. Korn, I want you to help me clean the basement. It's been cluttered for years."
"Dad, I'm tired. Let's leave it for tomorrow. Tomorrow's Sunday, and you know how huge and dark the basement is… it'll take forever."
"You're a man. You can handle a bit of work. We'll only clean a small part today."
"... Fine."
After dinner, his mother went to wash the dishes, while his father fetched two flashlights. The two of them stood before the basement door. His father opened it; it creaked softly, revealing a long staircase descending into thick darkness.
Korn glanced at the gloom and said with a smirk:
"Dad, did we just walk into a horror movie scene?"
"You coward, this isn't a movie. Don't exaggerate."
They descended slowly, each step creaking as if groaning beneath their weight.
When they reached the bottom, a wide room opened before them, filled with all sorts of things: musical instruments, old toys, random tools, a chaos long forgotten.
His father pointed to the left:
"Start moving the small stuff out from there. Leave the heavy things for tomorrow."
"Got it."
Korn went where his father pointed and began hauling things out: toys, old notebooks, neglected instruments, and a pile of objects he didn't even remember. After about half an hour, he felt worn out, so he wandered to a far corner and sat on a dusty piano. He aimed the flashlight beneath it and noticed a small card placed beside it.
It was completely clean — as if the dust had feared touching it, though it had swallowed everything else around.
That stirred his curiosity. He picked it up and studied it under the light.
A card with a white frame traced by twin golden lines, running with precise symmetry along the inner and outer edges as if carved by a jeweler's chisel. At each of the four corners, delicate golden patterns intertwined, suggesting either a forgotten language or ornaments ripped from the margins of some ancient manuscript.
The gold was not loud, but refined, glimmering without boasting, as though the card knew its worth and saw no need to declare it.
At the heart of the card, massive wooden shelves floated in midair, sinking into an endless visual depth, each one stretching on forever, loaded with millions of books.
Above them, etched in elegant golden script, was written:
"Library of Origin"
And in the lower right corner, inside a small circle rimmed with gold, was the classification: SS
At the bottom of the card, a faint diagonal strip shimmered, bordered with a fine golden thread. Inside it was inscribed:
"In the heart of this planet, at the crossroads of memory and truth, lies a library unseen by eyes, revealed only through the card.
There, the archive of Earth is preserved — every heartbeat released, every whispered betrayal, every pact written, every cry dissolved in darkness. Not one of them forgotten.
This card grants you a singular power: to open any page of your world's history, the history of people, or to observe what unfolds now in any corner of it.
As if you were the consciousness of this planet, seeing all while unseen yourself."
Korn stared at the card in awe. When his father returned, he lifted his head and asked:
"Dad… what's this card? I don't think it's from my toys when I was little. Did you buy it?"
His father glanced at it, then shook his head.
"I don't remember it. Maybe it was yours and you forgot."
"Maybe…"
Korn smiled faintly and said as he reached for one of the boxes:
"So, what now? Are we back to trading cards?"
"I'm no child anymore, but this one… it's different. Perfectly clean in the middle of all this dust. It felt special. I'll keep it."
"As you wish. Let's finish this corner and head upstairs."
Korn slipped the card into his pocket and stood to continue with the work.