They gathered without anyone saying they should. Fear did that to them—drew them together like moths caught in the same burning light. The vast library stretched in every direction, bookshelves climbing higher than they could crane their necks, shadows pressing down from ceilings no one could see. The only thing solid, the only thing constant, was the glowing mark seared into the far wall.
73
It hung there like a wound in the air, numbers etched in pale white fire. Every so often, the glow flickered as if alive.
At first, nobody spoke. The silence was its own prison, made thicker by the sound of dozens of breaths, shallow and uneven. The faint shuffle of feet. Someone's teeth chattering.
Finally, a woman stepped forward, her robe trailing on the cold floor. "What does it mean?" she asked. Her voice cracked, too loud in the stillness.
A man barked a nervous laugh. "Means nothing. Just a trick. A stupid number on a wall."
Another shook his head. His hands twisted the edge of his robe until his knuckles went white. "No. It means something. Don't you feel it? Everything here means something."
The circle tightened. They were seventy-three—exactly seventy-three—though no one dared admit it yet.
"What if it's time?" a voice asked from somewhere in the crowd. "A countdown."
"No," someone else said too quickly. His eyes were wide, darting from face to face. "Not time. It's—it's us."
The words dropped like a stone into water. Ripples of unease spread through the crowd.
"What do you mean, us?"
The man swallowed, throat working hard. "Count."
At first no one moved. Then slowly, awkwardly, they did. Fingers raised. Eyes skimmed across strangers' faces. Some whispered numbers under their breath.
When the counting finished, a hush fell.
Seventy-three.
Exactly.
The boy nearest to the wall let out a broken laugh. "Coincidence," he muttered. "Just… just chance. Tomorrow it'll say something else."
"Tomorrow?" a girl whispered. She clutched her sleeves as if they might shield her. "You think there's a tomorrow here?"
The question gnawed at the silence.
The young man stood apart, though still within the circle's edge. His eyes flicked from the glowing number to the frightened crowd. His expression was calm, but his jaw tightened. He said nothing, though the words pressed inside his chest, heavy as stone.
Someone whispered, "Then what happens when it changes?"
No answer came.
The number glowed on, merciless, and the shelves stretched forever.