The moment the doors closed, the air thickened, heavy with unspoken words. The chamber was vast, lined with towering shelves of ancient scrolls and books, each humming with an eerie energy. Ravi glanced at the inscriptions carved into the stone walls—names, some glowing faintly, others scratched out into oblivion. "This place feels… alive," Raj whispered. Vihan nodded. "It is. Every story, every memory, they all exist here. But only the Archivist decides what stays." Meera's pendant pulsed erratically, reacting to the sheer density of knowledge. "So where is this Archivist?" Aarav asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Before anyone could answer, a figure emerged from the shadows. Cloaked in layers of ink-black robes, the Archivist moved with a slow, deliberate grace. Their face was hidden behind a featureless silver mask. "You seek answers," the voice was neither male nor female, but something in between—a chorus of many voices speaking as one. "We seek the truth," Vihan corrected, stepping forward. The Archivist tilted their head. "Truth is a construct. A narrative woven by those who write it." Ravi clenched his fists. "Then we want to write our own." The Archivist's mask shimmered. "Few have dared to try."
Meera stepped beside Ravi. "You control history. You decide who is forgotten and who remains. Why?" The Archivist's head inclined slightly. "Because someone must." The chamber trembled, as if responding to their words. "Memories are fragile. Without order, chaos takes root." Aarav exhaled sharply. "So you erase people to maintain control?" Silence stretched. Then, softly, the Archivist spoke, "I do not erase. I document." Their silver fingers gestured to the glowing books. "The world forgets. I only record its choices." Raj's face twisted in frustration. "Then who decides who stays and who disappears?" The Archivist paused. "You do."
A heavy stillness settled over them. "What does that mean?" Ravi demanded. The Archivist extended a hand toward the shelves, and a book floated down. It was bound in dark leather, its pages shimmering with shifting ink. "The forgotten are not lost. They linger, waiting for remembrance." The book flipped open to a blank page, then, slowly, words began to appear—Aarav's name, followed by fragments of memories. Aarav's breath hitched. "This… is me?" The Archivist nodded. "Yes. And no. A memory incomplete is a memory at risk." Vihan's gaze darkened. "So if we forget him, he disappears."
"Correct," the Archivist confirmed. "The act of remembering is resistance against erasure." Ravi felt a cold realization settle in. "That's why they attacked us. That's why they tried to take Aarav. They wanted to make sure no one remembered him." The Archivist's silver fingers traced the pages. "Not just him. All of you." Meera's voice shook. "They're trying to erase us too?" The Archivist inclined their head. "You are anomalies. People who should have forgotten but did not. That makes you dangerous." The chamber darkened slightly, shadows gathering at the edges. "And that means they are coming."
A sudden pulse of energy surged through the room. The books trembled, pages flipping violently. The Archivist turned sharply. "It is already too late." The doors to the chamber groaned open, revealing a shifting mass of darkness beyond. Silhouettes moved within it—figures with blurred faces, whispering in voices that did not belong to them. Raj stepped back. "What the hell are those?" Vihan's expression was grim. "The erased." The Archivist's voice remained calm, though there was an edge of urgency. "They have come to correct the imbalance." Aarav's fingers tightened around the book with his name. "I'm not disappearing again."
Ravi's pulse raced as the shadows advanced. "How do we fight them?" The Archivist extended a single hand, and in an instant, several books lifted from the shelves, glowing with brilliant light. "With memory," they said simply. "Speak their names. Remember them, and they cannot take you." Meera grabbed one of the books, flipping through its pages. "We don't even know who they are!" The Archivist's mask shimmered. "Then listen." A whisper filled the air—names, fragments of lives lost to time. The shadows hesitated, flickering as the names were spoken aloud. Raj's voice was hoarse. "It's working."
The figures recoiled slightly, but they did not retreat. Instead, they pressed forward, their whispers growing into an unsettling cacophony. The Archivist's voice remained steady. "But will it be enough?" The chamber trembled as the books' glow intensified. The silhouettes shuddered, struggling against the weight of remembrance. But something was wrong. The darkness did not vanish. Instead, it condensed, forming a single, towering figure at the threshold of the chamber. Unlike the others, this one did not flicker. It was solid. Present. And when it spoke, its voice was unmistakable. "You should not be here," it said.
The room fell into a suffocating silence. Ravi's body tensed. That voice—it was familiar. Too familiar. Slowly, the figure stepped forward, revealing itself. The others froze, blood draining from their faces. Meera clutched her pendant so tightly her knuckles turned white. Raj's breath came out in a sharp gasp. Aarav's grip on his book faltered. And Ravi… he couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Because standing before them, eyes dark and hollow, was a man they never thought they would see again. "Rana?" Ravi whispered, voice barely audible. The shadowed figure smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "You remember me," he said. "Good."