The silence after the voice faded was heavier than any scream.
72.
The number burned on the wall, replacing the 73 that had haunted them since the first day. A single digit lost, like a candle snuffed. Yet they all knew — it had not been a faceless someone this time.
It had been him.
The young man's hand still tingled from where it had touched the blank book. He could feel the absence within himself like a bruise in the mind — not a sharp wound, but a dull hollow where something used to rest. He tried to reach for it, and there was nothing. The effort scraped against his skull like fingernails on glass.
A birthday forgotten. The words had appeared, and the Library had taken them without hesitation.
The knife-holder broke the silence first. His voice was too loud, rough with mocking laughter.
"Well then. You gave it what it wanted. Guess we're all still breathing. Congratulations, hero."
The word "hero" dripped with venom.
The murmurs began immediately, some praising him, others whispering behind cupped hands.
"He saved us…"
"No, he's reckless. What if it demanded something worse next time?"
"Who's to say it didn't already?"
The young man did not move. He watched their shifting faces, their darting eyes, and understood: the first retrieval had not united them. It had divided them.
The braided girl clutched her own blank book tighter, her knuckles white. Her face was pale, but her eyes gleamed with dread certainty. She had warned them. Now her warning was truth.
The knife-holder jabbed a finger toward her.
"You knew. You said it would take memories. You could've offered something yourself."
Her lips trembled. "I didn't… I couldn't…"
"Couldn't or wouldn't?"
The crowd swelled, voices rising like a storm.
"She's hiding more!"
"She knew about the book before it even appeared!"
"What else is she not telling us?"
The young man finally spoke. His voice was low, but it cut through the noise like a blade.
"Enough. Turning on each other won't change what's already gone."
The knife-holder sneered. "Easy for you to say. You're the one who decided what we all lost."
The words struck deeper than he expected.
What had they all lost?
The question coiled inside his chest. He had offered a memory that belonged to him alone — or so he thought. But the number on the wall had dropped. One less among them. Did that mean his sacrifice had cost someone else something, too? Or was the Library mocking them, pretending that his choice had spared lives when in truth another had been erased altogether?
The young man turned his gaze to the projection. The stark number stared back, unyielding. Seventy-two. No explanation. No mercy.
"Maybe it took more than you know," a girl whispered from the crowd. "What if that number drops every time, no matter what we give?"
Her words ignited another spark of paranoia.
"Then he doomed us all."
"No, he saved us—"
"Saved us from what? A riddle?"
The atrium rippled with fear, accusations bouncing like echoes between the shelves.
The braided girl suddenly stepped forward. Her voice cracked but carried.
"He didn't doom us. He did what the Library demanded. And if you think that book would've spared anyone else, you're wrong."
Her fingers dug into the spine of her own blank book as if it might vanish if she loosened her grip. "When I first touched mine… I heard it. A whisper. It told me: sacrifice what cannot be kept. It wasn't a guess. I knew because the book spoke."
Gasps. A few shuffled backward as though she were diseased.
"You heard voices?"
"She's cursed."
"No—she's chosen. That's why she has it."
The young man studied her face. There was no lie there — only terror.
The knife-holder snarled. "And you thought it best to keep that little detail to yourself?"
"If I'd said it earlier, you would've demanded I use my book!" she cried, voice breaking. "It doesn't just erase things—it erases people's selves. Their desires, who they are. I… I didn't want to be the one to choose what someone lost."
Her confession left a hollow silence.
Even those who had jeered before now hesitated, their anger shifting to unease. The implication was clear: if these blank books had that power, then none of their minds were safe.
The young man broke the silence. "It doesn't matter who knew what first. What matters is understanding the cost." His gaze swept the crowd. "The Library will ask for more. It won't stop here. The only question is what we'll give — and what it will take in return."
For a moment, no one answered.
Then, slowly, the group began to splinter. A cluster formed around the knife-holder, voices low and bitter. Another gathered near the braided girl, sympathy mixing with fear. A smaller knot lingered in the middle, uncertain where to stand.
The atrium had become fractured ground.
The young man stepped away from them all. He leaned against one of the towering shelves, closing his eyes briefly. His thoughts spun, but he forced them into order.
A birthday. That was what he had lost. It seemed so small, a detail, a scrap of a life he couldn't even fully recall. But the weight of absence pressed heavier than the memory itself. He could feel its shape, the outline of a day that once held meaning, now devoured.
He whispered under his breath, unheard by the others: "What else will you take from me?"
---
That night, they tried to rest, but no one trusted anyone enough to sleep deeply. The chamber doors they had discovered became contested ground, with some insisting on groups for safety, others demanding solitude. Arguments stretched into the dark.
Whispers carried even when voices hushed.
"They'll turn on us next retrieval."
"He gave something small this time, but what if it takes bigger pieces next?"
"She's dangerous with that blank book. She could erase us."
The young man lay on the cold floor, eyes open to the black ceiling. He did not sleep. His chest ached with the pressure of so many watching eyes, the weight of suspicion already shifting toward him.
Not a hero. Not a savior. Just another piece in the Library's cruel game.
When the projection wall pulsed once more, casting its glow through the atrium, all heads turned.
The number 72 burned white against the dark. Beneath it, new words shimmered faintly — not a full announcement, not yet. Just a warning:
"INTERVAL ACTIVE. NEXT RETRIEVAL UNDISCLOSED."
They read it in silence.
No one trusted the quiet anymore.