The Hall of Unfinished Stories did not welcome visitors so much as it tolerated them.
Aether understood that the moment he crossed its threshold. The air did not move the way air was supposed to move. It hung in long, patient sheets, as though the entire chamber were holding its breath, waiting to see whether the person who had just entered deserved to be there at all. Shelves rose on every side, curving up into a ceiling he could not see, and each shelf held books that were not quite finished — spines cracked open at odd angles, pages fluttering though there was no wind, titles that shifted when he tried to read them twice.
The Forgotten Reader walked ahead of him without sound. No footsteps. No displaced dust. It was as if the hall itself declined to acknowledge that its oldest guest was still moving through it.
"You feel it," the Forgotten Reader said. It wasn't a question.
"It feels like the room doesn't want me touching anything," Aether admitted.
