The Library Between Realms

There is a moment in time the world does not account for a breath between seconds, a shadow between ticks of the clock. Most never feel it. But every so often, when the moon lingers too long or a bell tolls out of turn, the veil parts.

And in that sliver of unmeasured time, the Library Between Realms awakens.

It exists outside of places, beyond the reach of living memory. Its shelves stretch into fog, carved of forgotten trees, filled with tomes that write themselves. Each book contains the life of a soul, scrawled in ink that glows faintly, pulsing with memory. They begin at birth and end… when they end. Most do. Some don’t.

At the heart of the Library stands Page.

Neither alive nor dead, Page was not born and never truly became. They are a keeper shaped of will and silence, forged from purpose alone. Their form is soft and shapeless, save for the oversized spectacles balanced upon an unseen face, and the books clutched to their chest. Page moves without sound, seeing without eyes, knowing without question. Their task is simple: Watch. Record. Preserve.

No one enters the Library, unless they are meant to. And those who find it… rarely leave unchanged.

One such moment comes quietly.

A ripple moves through the shelves. A rustling like pages turning themselves echoes through the fog. A book slams shut in the distance, and another opens. Page turns toward the sound, the light from their spectacles catching on a newly appeared volume atop a stone pedestal.

This one is different.

Most books end with a flourish of finality. The ink darkens. The cover closes. But this one stops mid-sentence. The quill an ethereal curl of shadow hovers, waiting. And then… footsteps.

Soft. Hesitant. Human.

From the mist comes a figure, their features blurred, as though memory refuses to hold them. They step toward the pedestal, eyes fixed on the book as if drawn by an unseen tether. They reach out.

Page moves between them.

The figure startles, hand withdrawing. Page says nothing, but their presence is an anchor in this place of drift. Slowly, they tilt the book toward the visitor, inviting them to read.

And the visitor does.

They see their childhood etched in careful lines. Their choices. Their regrets. Moments long buried rise with the crackling of parchment. But when they reach the final page, there is only white.

Page waits.

The figure turns to them. “Is this… mine?”

A pause. Then a nod.

“Why is it unfinished?”

Page tilts their head. They do not speak, but in their stillness, meaning settles: because you are not yet gone.

The visitor looks around, seeing the endless aisles, the ghostly glimmer of candlelight that flickers without flame. “What happens if I finish it?”

Page opens their arms.

The figure steps back. “What happens if I don’t?”

Page gently closes the book. The fog thickens.

Not all questions are answered. Not all endings are meant to be written yet.

The visitor wakes in their own bed, heart pounding. A scrap of parchment lies beside them, etched with only one word: “Remember.”

They do not know what they’re remembering. But something within them has shifted. Forever.

And deep within the Library Between Realms, Page watches a book pulse with light its last page still blank, still waiting.

Because endings, like beginnings, are matters of time.

And time… is always turning.