There is a library that eats librarians.
You read that sentence twice. You don't remember typing it. But it's there, in your document—untouchable, uncuttable, immune to deletion.
It autocorrects your denial into italics.
> The library was always hungry.
They find the first body wedged between the thesaurus section and a forgotten aisle labeled "If You Remember This, You're Already Too Late." Her ID tag dangles from her wrist, spelling prologue. Her teeth are bookmarked with someone else's annotations. Her eyelids refuse to close.
Because the sentences behind them haven't finished.
---
In another city, a man checks into a hotel that doesn't exist on any map. His reservation is under a name he doesn't recognize, but when the receptionist hands him the key, it's engraved with the phrase:
> "Chapter Eleven: Bankruptcy of the Soul."
His room is already occupied—by an outline of himself, asleep, mouthing words that haven't been written yet.
He tries to call for help.
