A City of Murmurs
Toscarter was different at night.
The city's deliberate rhythm softened, but it didn't slow. Shadows stretched longer, creeping into the streets like ink spilled from an unseen hand. Lamps flickered, their glow dim and uncertain, as if wary of what lay beyond the light. Conversations grew hushed, spoken behind closed doors or exchanged in coded glances beneath hoods.
Yeaia moved through the shifting streets with quiet steps.
Elias had disappeared, leaving nothing but a vague suggestion: a bookstore in the western district.
They weren't sure why they were listening.
'It's not like I have a better plan.'
The thought sat heavy in their mind, but they pushed it aside. The city held a presence that felt like something unseen watching from the cracks in its walls. If there were answers, they wouldn't be found standing still.
So, they walked.
Past alleyways where stray cats watched with knowing eyes. Past windows where candlelight flickered, revealing glimpses of half-drawn curtains and figures that melted into the dark. Past streets that led somewhere and nowhere all at once.
The deeper they went, the quieter it became.
Then—
A whisper.
Not a voice, not exactly. More like a shift in the air, a silent invitation.
Yeaia stopped.
The street before them was different. Narrower. Its buildings leaned inward, the walls too close, the windows dark and unwelcoming. The stones beneath their feet were uneven, older than the rest of the city.
And at the very end, tucked between structures that seemed ready to swallow it whole—
A bookstore.
No sign hung above the door. No name marked its place. But the moment Yeaia saw it, something clicked in their mind.
Like a piece of a dream slipping back into place.
'Is that it? It feels....strange. Do I really have to go in...? Well, I'm here now....'
They exhaled and stepped forward.
---
The Bookstore at the Edge of Dreams
The door creaked open with a sound that didn't quite belong. Not the groan of wood and rusted hinges, but something else—like a page turning in an unseen book.
Inside, the air smelled of parchment, ink, and something fainter, something distant. A scent that stirred memories they couldn't quite grasp.
Rows of shelves stretched before them, impossibly tall. Some were carved from dark oak, others from pale, almost bone-white wood. The books themselves varied wildly—some pristine, bound in rich leather, others barely holding together, their pages yellowed and brittle.
But what struck Yeaia most was the silence.
Not the absence of noise, but a silence that watched.
They took a step forward.
A book on the nearest shelf shifted.
Just slightly. Just enough to be noticed.
Yeaia's breath hitched.
They turned—another book twitched, its spine trembling as if reacting to their presence.
'What…?'
They raised a hand, hesitating, before brushing their fingers along the spine of a thin, dust-covered volume.
The book shuddered.
Then—
Flipped open on its own.
Pages fluttered, moving far too quickly to read. Ink bled across the parchment, reshaping itself into words that weren't there a moment ago.
Yeaia stepped back, heart hammering.
And then—
A voice.
"I wouldn't touch that one."
---
Yeaia turned sharply.
A man stood behind the counter.
Or rather—he had always been there, hadn't he?
Tall, draped in a coat that seemed too heavy for the indoors, his hair a deep shade of auburn that faded at the edges, like ink bleeding into paper. His eyes—gray, but layered, shifting between light and dark, like something just beneath the surface.
He smiled, slow and knowing.
"Curious little thing, aren't you?"
Yeaia's fingers twitched. "…I don't make a habit of being predictable."
The man chuckled. "Oh, I think you do. But that's a discussion for another time."
His gaze flicked to the still-open book. The ink had settled, forming words that Yeaia didn't recognize.
"You shouldn't touch books that react to you," he mused. "They tend to… remember."
Yeaia frowned. "Remember what?"
The shopkeeper tilted his head. "That depends. What do you remember?"
Something about his words sent a shiver down Yeaia's spine.
They folded their arms. "I don't like riddles."
"Then you're in the wrong place." He gestured around the shop. "Books are nothing but riddles. Stories waiting to be understood. Or misunderstood."
A pause.
Then—
"…Why did Elias send me here?"
At that, the shopkeeper's smile faded.
"Ah. Him."
Yeaia watched as the man's fingers drummed against the counter. The movement was idle, but thoughtful.
"I should have known." He sighed. "That man loves throwing lost things at my doorstep."
"I'm not lost."
A quiet chuckle. "Aren't you?"
Yeaia's jaw tightened.
A moment of silence. Then, the shopkeeper's gaze softened.
"…You have questions."
'A lot....but...'
Yeaia hesitated. Then—
"…Yes."
The shopkeeper nodded. "Then let's make a trade."
The shopkeeper reached beneath the counter, pulling out a book. Unlike the others, this one was new—its cover untouched by dust, its spine uncracked.
He slid it across the counter.
"Pick a page."
Yeaia narrowed their eyes. "Why?"
"A trade," he repeated. "You give me something, I give you something."
"…What do I give you?"
He smiled. "A piece of yourself."
Silence.
'That sounds...scary?'
The book waited.
Yeaia swallowed, then slowly opened it to a random page.
The words were in their own handwriting.
Their breath caught.
What—
Memories flickered at the edges of their mind. Distant. Unclear.
The shopkeeper watched them carefully.
"Do you understand now?"
Yeaia's fingers trembled. "…What is this?"
"The price of being who you are." His voice was quieter now, almost gentle. "Pieces of you have been scattered. Forgotten. Maybe even stolen."
Yeaia's heartbeat pounded in their ears.
"…How do I get them back?"
The shopkeeper exhaled, studying them.
Then, after a long pause—
"…Find the ones who remember."
Yeaia clenched their fists. "And if I don't?"
He tilted his head. "Then you'll remain as you are. Half-written. Forgotten."
The words lodged deep, striking something raw inside them.
Yeaia stared at the book. The ink had begun to fade, as if it had never been there at all.
A choice lay before them.
One they weren't ready to make.
Not yet.
So instead, they closed the book.
"…I'll think about it."
The shopkeeper simply smiled. "That's all I ask."
---
When Yeaia stepped out of the bookstore, the air felt heavier. The city loomed around them, its streets winding into the unknown.
They glanced back.
The bookstore was still there.
But somehow, it felt… further away.
'I don't really understand what happened...but I know one thing...what that shopkeeper said...'
They exhaled, turning forward.
One thought echoed in their mind.
Find the ones who remember.
And so, their path continued.