The Hall of Unfinished Stories stretched farther than sight itself.
There was no ceiling. No walls. Only an endless expanse filled with countless floating books drifting through rivers of silver light, each one suspended as though time itself had forgotten to claim it. The light did not come from any single source. It simply existed, threading between the books like breath moving through a sleeping body, and wherever it touched a cover, the book seemed to stir, ever so faintly, as if remembering it was still being watched.
Some of the books were pristine, their spines gleaming as though freshly bound. Others were torn, burned, or missing entire chapters, their pages curling outward like something had tried, and failed, to erase them completely. Yet none of them vanished. No matter how damaged, no matter how forgotten, each one quietly waited, drifting in that endless silver current, patient in a way that felt almost unbearable to witness.
