Have you ever looked up at the night sky and suddenly realized how small and insignificant you are compared to everything happening within that vast structure? And how short your life is compared to all that has happened and all that ever will? You're little more than a speck of dust. Not more than the blink of an eye.
You're not even a moment. You're the space between them.
That is exactly the feeling that starts in my stomach and spreads through my entire body as I look into those black holes of eyes.
It's as if my whole life has led to this moment. As if every movement inevitably pointed here, like a marble circling inside a funnel, rolling and rolling — only to fall into the hole at the end.
So I stand there, a Crawcoon in my hand, my head tilted back, staring at this being I know is so old there is no number capable of describing its age. And that knowledge rings so true inside me that I simply accept it.
"You are not meant to be here," he says. Then he blinks once.
That brief interruption between me and his black eyes is enough for time to start moving again. And for me to breathe.
The words from his mouth flow like drops over stone. His voice carries an accent I can't place. It sounds spiced. A word I never would have chosen to describe a voice before, yet now it's the only one that fits. Deep. Heavy. Spiced.
It sounds like something my language was never meant to describe. I swallow. My throat is painfully dry. It feels as if I've eaten all the dust lying on the books here.
Only there is no dust.As if someone had just wiped it away.
"You don't wander here by accident."
His words do something to me. I know that I don't belong here, that I shouldn't be here. But when he says, "you are led here," I start to wonder whether I was always meant to be here after all.
He tilts his head just a fraction.Not toward me—more toward the space around me.
"You do not yet possess a fixed entry," he says.
The word possess feels wrong. As if there is something about me that I can't see myself. Like a label already written—just not visible to me.
His gaze slides past me, then lingers on my hand. On the Crackoon.
"And you did not come alone."
Something in his voice shifts. Not judgment. More like… confirmation.
"The System has noticed you," he continues. "But it has not yet understood you."
Cold washes over me.Not fear. Understanding. Because I realize that the System's judgment will decide my fate.
I know immediately that he means the System. The one connected to my MySy. And I find myself wondering what kind of powerful bullshit humans have been playing with.
Standing in front of this being, the truth is suddenly simple and undeniable.
The System is not man-made.It belongs to this foreign world. The other dimension.
Suddenly, his eyes begin to glow white. Light spills from them. Everything around me turns blindingly bright. I squeeze my eyes shut.
The Crackoon whimpers softly, and without consciously thinking about it, I pull it into my arms, shielding it. The wild little creature presses against my chest, trembling.
""We do not yet know what to do with her," they say.
I hear his voice—and at the same time, a thousand others.
Ancient. Powerful.
The space trembles.
Once again, every hair on my body stands on end, and I feel as if I've suddenly been placed in front of a jury. A jury that gets to decide whether I'm allowed to take my next breath or not.
Everything inside me is screaming. My muscles tense. My lungs forget their rhythm. This is the moment when rational thought stops working. Everything in me wants to run.
And I know this is probably the stupidest thing I could do, but I turn my back on the being and prepare to bolt.
Except — I don't get anywhere.
I move my legs. I feel the ground beneath my feet.But the shelves beside me remain perfectly still.
Suddenly, the light is gone. The harsh white glow of his eyes that illuminated the space around me vanishes. I'm left blind; running in place.
Then I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder.
To my surprise, it's warm. Somehow, I expected his skin to be cold, like stone. Instead, it's warm and heavy, and a tingling sensation spreads from the spot where he's touching me.
Not painful.Worse: Intimate.
"What is that?"
My legs stop moving. I don't know what his question refers to. Then, in the next moment, I understand. He releases my shoulder. I feel a tug at the back of my waistband, and for some reason, heat rushes to my face.
My body betrays me before my mind can catch up.
Slowly, I turn around, the Crawcoon still pressed tightly to my chest.
In his hands, the being holding my collected volume.
It's such a surreal image that something inside me wants to burst out laughing. Laughter is what my body reaches for when fear has nowhere else to go. But I know that it would be a very bad reaction in this moment.
So I take another deep breath, swallow, and say, "That's a story."
He holds the volume in both hands, opens it, and slowly flips through the pages.
"A story," he repeats, so quietly I can barely hear him.
There are so many books here.Doesn't he know what a story is?
His fingers stop on a page that holds nothing but lines and color. Figures. Motion, frozen in place.
"This," he says slowly, "is not a life." He says it like a verdict.
I frown. The symbols on his skin freeze.
He turns another page. Then back again. Then forward once more.
"Nothing is preserved," he continues. "Nothing confirmed. Nothing has happened."
The symbols on his skin start moving again — faster now, as if struggling to classify something.
"And yet," he says softly, "it tells."
His head turns toward me.
"Without origin. Without a claim to truth."
He holds the volume out to me slightly.
"Such a thing does not exist here."
"There's nothing special about it," I say at last. My voice sounds strange in the silence. Too loud. I clear my throat. "We have lots of stories like that. Thousands. Millions."
He looks at me as if I've said something fundamentally wrong.
"Lives are preserved in order to learn," he says. "To remember what was."
His gaze drops back to the book.-
"You cannot learn from something that was never lived."
I shake my head before I can think about it.
"You can," I say."That's exactly why."
I search for words that make sense here.
"You can learn how something feels," I say. "What you fear. What you run from. What you stay for."
He says nothing.
"Some truths," I continue more quietly, "can only be spoken when they never really happened."
He tilts his head. Like an animal trying to understand something that has caught its curiosity.I breathe out.
"I give it to you."
The symbols on his skin settle again. Slowly, he closes the collected volume. Carefully. Almost reverently.
"A gift," he says.
His lips move as if the word were a foreign object in his mouth. As if he hasn't used it in a very long time. Maybe ever.
His hand rises. The symbols on his skin shift, briefly separating before flowing together again. They stream toward his arm, spill into his hand, until his fingertips turn black. Silver fractures flicker through this darkness.
I remain perfectly still. Because even though I feel the power pulsing around his hand, I'm not afraid.
"Gifts are rarely one-sided."
His gaze lifts to my face.
"I give you something that will protect you. You speak too carelessly and wander places you do not belong."
There is reprimand in his words. Gentle. Like a parent speaking to a child. As if he knows so much more than I do.
Before I can respond, he touches the frame of my glasses. Just lightly.
Something clicks. Not audible. Perceptible.
I don't know what he's done. But I know I'll find out.
My Crawcoon shifts restlessly. The being turns toward it, leaning forward just slightly.
"And you," he says softly, "will no longer remain unwritten."
Then he touches its head. That touch is gentle.
A shiver runs through the Crawcoon. But it stays calm.
"This is no longer a gift," I say. "This is a trade."
"That," he replies calmly, "is what the System has planned for you."
Something around me shifts, and it feels as if the world is straightening itself again.
"You should go."
He says it without threat.Just a statement.
"I don't even know how I got here," I whisper, suddenly aware of the full scope of the situation I'm in.
"It will happen shortly," he says. And once again, I feel the dizziness. I know that everything will go dark any moment now.
"What should I call you when we meet again?" I blurt out.I don't know why that matters to me.
Something like the hint of a smile touches the being's lips.
"That is not intended."
Then—
"They call me the Chronicler."
And then it grows dark again, and I fall.