•The Weight of a Name
The hum of something ancient reverberated through the empty halls. It was faint but constant, a pulse of time, of something that had endured for far longer than the mind could comprehend. The air was thick, heavy with memories, as if the very walls of the place had absorbed the regrets of the world. Somewhere in the expanse, a man stirred.
He had no name. Or rather, it had been so long that he had forgotten it. The Archivist—that was what he was called, though by whom, he couldn't say. The term had become both his identity and his curse, a reflection of the emptiness that had settled in his chest.
Sitting at a desk that had long since aged, the Archivist stared at the jar before him. It was smooth and cold, a polished vessel that gleamed faintly in the dim light. Its glass was flawless, but its contents—he knew what it contained—were far from clear.
The jar was his. The Archivist knew this without a doubt. Yet there was something unsettling about the way it seemed to beckon to him, as though it were not his at all. It held a name that was his own. His name, though he didn't remember it. Why this jar bore his name, he couldn't say. The others were all different, nameless vessels holding moments, regrets, lives that had once been. But his, this jar, had his name etched on it in a way that felt impossibly personal, yet distant.
A soft hum vibrated from the jar. The Archivist didn't flinch. He had long ago learned to ignore the sounds that filled this place—the whispers from the jars, the flickering of lights, the endless echoes that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. It was the nature of the Archive to stir, to be alive in a way that no living thing could truly understand.
His fingers hovered over the jar, the tips of his long, pale fingers brushing the smooth surface. He didn't know what would happen if he opened it. He didn't know what was inside, but he could feel it—something shifting, something waiting.
The faintest sound came from the hallway beyond. A rustling, almost imperceptible. The Archivist glanced up, his gaze traveling across the empty room, the endless rows of shelves stacked with jars of all sizes. The Archive stretched out before him, far beyond what his eyes could see, each jar holding a piece of a life that had once been, each filled with an individual regret, a single moment of sorrow or guilt.
His head ached, a dull throb at the back of his skull. The Archive was vast, and he had no memory of how he had arrived here. There was only this unending stretch of shelves, the unshakable feeling that he had always been here. That there was nothing else.
And yet, he knew there must be more. Somewhere, beyond the shelves, beyond the jars, there was something. Something else.
The hum of the jar grew louder, more insistent. His fingers brushed against the glass, his hand trembling ever so slightly. A strange unease gripped his chest, a feeling that something was amiss, something that had shifted ever so slightly in the dark corners of the Archive. The Archivist took a deep breath, steadying himself.
For the first time in ages, he felt a strange compulsion. It was as if the Archive was calling to him, urging him to move, to seek something beyond the rows of jars. His feet moved almost of their own accord. He stood from his desk, his body stiff, as though it, too, had forgotten the motion of movement. The sound of his feet on the floor echoed in the stillness, a hollow, lonely sound that resonated in the vastness of the Archive.
He walked between the shelves, his hands trailing along the rows of jars. Some of the jars hummed faintly, some were completely still. It didn't matter. The Archivist had learned to tune out the noises, the murmurs of the regrets within. They all blended together over time, an eternal cacophony of sorrow and loss.
But the hum of his jar—the one with his name—was different. It seemed to call out to him, growing louder as he walked further into the Archive. He could feel it, a presence in the air, as if the very walls of the Archive were alive, waiting for something. But what?
The Archivist's heart quickened, and for the first time in ages, he felt something resembling fear. Fear of what? Fear of himself? Fear of the Archive? It didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was the jar. It was drawing him in, pulling him toward something.
He paused, staring at the endless rows of jars around him. A noise—a soft, scraping sound—came from somewhere in the distance. The Archivist froze, his eyes narrowing. It was faint, but it was there. Like the soft scratching of something dragging along the floor.
"Is someone there?" the Archivist asked aloud, but the question felt absurd even as it left his lips. He knew there was no one else. This place was his alone. It always had been.
The scratching continued, a faint rustle that seemed to grow louder with each passing moment. The Archivist couldn't explain it. The noise seemed to come from every direction at once, as though the very air was alive, moving, whispering.
He moved forward cautiously, step by step, his eyes scanning the shadows. The jars continued to hum, some louder, some softer, but all in their own way, each one holding a moment of regret. But it was the scratching sound that drew his attention, the faintest noise that made his skin crawl.
Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the sound stopped. The Archivist stood motionless, waiting. The air was thick, dense with the weight of something unsaid, something left undone.
A distant whisper reached his ears, so faint that it could have been a trick of the wind, but he swore he heard it. A voice, soft, like a memory just out of reach.
"One more."
The words echoed through his mind, though they made no sense. One more what? One more jar? One more regret? The Archivist couldn't say. But he felt it. Felt it deep within his chest, as though the Archive itself had spoken to him.
One more.
He looked around the empty halls of the Archive, the thousands of jars that surrounded him, each one holding a different piece of a forgotten life, a forgotten soul. He could feel the presence of the jars, each one calling out to him, waiting for him to open them. But this one… the jar with his name. It was different.
The Archivist's fingers twitched, but he didn't move. Something had changed. He could sense it. But he wasn't sure if he was ready to face whatever lay inside.
Then, suddenly, he felt it again. The hum, deep and steady, calling him. Without thinking, his hand reached for the jar, his fingers brushing the smooth surface. And in that moment, as if responding to his touch, the jar began to pulse.
The Archivist closed his eyes, a strange sensation washing over him. He couldn't say what was happening. He couldn't say if he even wanted to know.
But before he could pull his hand away, something shifted.
The jar… was no longer there.
His hand hovered in the air, and before him, just beside him, rested another jar. It was smaller than the others, almost delicate, its surface gleaming as if it had just been made. It had no markings, no name, but he could feel the pulse from within. His pulse quickened in response.
The Archivist stared at the jar, confusion washing over him. It didn't belong here. It didn't belong to him.
But it was here.