•A Thousand Mouths, One Voice
The Archivist's hand lingered near the jar, hovering just inches above its trembling surface. He could no longer tell if it was his own body that shook—or if the jar pulsed with something unspeakable, something older than language. The humming was deeper now, like a chant echoing beneath layers of silence.
And then, the lid slid open—by itself.
No sudden movement. No dramatic clatter. Just the gentle whisper of aged glass parting from its resting place.
Inside, there was nothing. No fog, no scroll, no remnants of memory—just darkness. But it wasn't empty. The void inside the jar pulled at him, not physically, but in that quiet way regret pulls at the soul. The way grief gnaws, unannounced, in the back of the throat. The way sorrow waits until you're alone and tired enough to mistake it for company.
He leaned closer.
There, reflected in the slick inner curve of the glass, was a face.
Not his.
It blinked.
He recoiled violently, knocking over a chair he hadn't noticed in the corner. The clang echoed, a metallic accusation in the otherwise muffled stillness of the forgotten room. Breath caught in his throat, the Archivist stared at the jar, half-expecting the thing inside to rise, to spill over like ink from a shattered pen.
But nothing came.
No scream. No hand reaching out. No shapeless horror.
Only the echo of a heartbeat that might've been his—or might've been the Archive's.
He turned, stepping backward, back into the corridor. The rows of jars hadn't changed. They still watched him, quiet, unmoved, like ancient monks in meditation. But something had shifted in him.
He could feel them now.
Not just see them. Not just hear their whispers.
He could feel the weight of each jar.
Each one pressed against the edges of his mind, as if every memory—every sealed, suffering soul—had become a bead threaded through the fibers of his thoughts. Their names, still unknown, still blurred, began forming patterns. Not language. Not stories. Just... density.
How many had come before him?
And how many had wandered too far into the Archive to ever return?
He moved quickly now, no longer interested in the lantern-light or the familiar pathways. He didn't remember how he got back—only that suddenly, there he was, standing before the shelf where his jar had been.
The new one was still there. The one with the sigil.
Except...
It no longer bore the symbol.
It now bore a name.
His.
But written differently.
Etched into the glass like it had always been there. As if the earlier disappearance had been a mistake, a slip in perception.
Except he remembered.
He was sure of it. It had vanished. It hadn't said his name before.
His hands trembled as he touched the jar, half-hoping it would disappear again. That it would offer him a reason to run. To wake up. To scream.
But no. It remained solid. Real.
Inside, something stirred.
Not violently. Not with urgency.
Just... deliberately.
Like someone turning slowly in bed. A shiver of presence.
"I want to go home," he whispered aloud, for the first time since the Archive began whispering back.
But the jars didn't answer. They never did. Not directly.
Instead, another sound reached him.
A scraping. Closer now. No longer distant.
But this time—it wasn't behind him.
It was above.
He tilted his head up. The ceiling, once high and far beyond reach, was closer now. Lower. The shelves—were they taller? Were they growing?
He took a step back.
And the entire Archive breathed in.
A low groan pulsed through the floorboards. The shelves leaned, slightly, as if acknowledging him. The jars began to vibrate. Not violently. Not dangerously. Just... impatiently.
Then, a voice. No whisper this time.
Just one voice, speaking calmly.
"You've remembered too much."
He turned. No one.
He turned again.
The face from the jar was now standing at the far end of the corridor.
Not approaching. Just watching.
Its features were unclear. Not blurred—just unfinished. As though someone had stopped sketching halfway through. No eyes, but it saw. No mouth, but it had spoken.
The Archivist backed away slowly, only to feel his back press against another shelf that hadn't been behind him seconds ago. The Archive was shifting. Walls re-forming.
He was being guided.
"No," he muttered, his throat tightening.
The face at the end of the corridor cocked its head.
Then said: "One more."
It began to walk toward him.
Not menacing. Not fast.
But inevitable.
The Archivist spun and ran. Deeper. Anywhere. Through corridors he didn't recognize. Past shelves of broken jars, jars with teeth, jars that pulsed like hearts. He passed a doorway with nothing behind it but a mirror. Another with stairs going up, endlessly, into pitch-black silence.
He ran until his lungs screamed.
Until his legs faltered.
And then—he saw it.
A door.
Wooden. Real. Out of place. A familiar kind of out-of-place. Not crafted by the Archive, but left behind. Like something the Archive had swallowed whole and forgotten to digest.
He reached it, hand slamming against the frame, twisting the brass handle with desperation.
It gave way.
Light poured through.
Sunlight.
The real world.
He stumbled out onto a stone pathway, cold wind biting at his face. Trees. The scent of rain. People—distant, blurred, but human. He was out. Somehow—he had made it.
He collapsed onto his knees, gasping.
He turned once—just to see.
Just to make sure he was free.
And the Archive door?
It was gone.
Nothing behind him but forest.
He laughed. Quietly at first. Then louder. A mad, disbelieving joy that rose like water in a broken dam.
And for the first time in what felt like eternity, he breathed without fear.
Until he heard it.
The whisper.
From inside his coat pocket.
"One more."
-The end.