The dust is a gritty texture on my bare feet, a constant reminder of my vulnerability. I don't have shoes. I don't have anything but this pipe and the clothes I died in. The thought is a cold, hard knot in my stomach.
I start at the shelf opposite him. The books are all the same—black leather, no titles, no distinguishing features. I pull one out. It's heavy, the pages thick and brittle. I open it. The pages are blank. I slam it shut and put it back.
This is hopeless.
I pull out another book. Blank. And another. And another. I'm moving fast, my fingers flying over the spines, pulling out books, opening them, shoving them back in. It's a frantic, desperate motion. The stranger is methodical. I'm chaotic. He's a veteran. I'm still a raw recruit.
"How can you be so calm?" I ask, my voice tight with frustration.
"Because panicking doesn't help," he replies, not even looking up. "And I've been in here before."
The silence stretches, broken only by the rustle of pages and the thud of books being returned to their shelves. I'm starting to sweat, my bare feet slipping on the dusty floor. The single lightbulb in the center of the room seems to be getting dimmer. Or maybe it's just my imagination.
"Did you find it?" I call out, my anxiety mounting.
"No," he snaps. "If I found it, I'd say so. Keep looking."
I move to the next shelf, my hands starting to tremble. I pull out a book, my fingers clumsy. The book slips from my grasp and falls to the floor with a loud thud, sending up a cloud of dust.
"Careful," the stranger growls. "Noise attracts attention."
I kneel down to pick up the book, my heart pounding. That's when I see it. Tucked away in the dark space where the book was, is a small, folded piece of paper. My hands shake as I unfold it. The paper is old and yellowed, the writing a spidery, elegant script.
It says: The lie you tell yourself most often.
I stare at the words, my mind racing. What lie?
Is it a riddle?
Is it an answer?
Does it have any meaning...?
"So that's what it is."
The voice of the man, suddenly over my shoulder, makes me nearly scream. I didn't even hear him move. I leap up, my back against the shelf, my pipe held between us.
"I didn't hear you." I gasp, my heart pounding.
"I'm quiet," he says, his gaze fixed on the note in my hand. "The rooms here have different rules. It's not about finding the book but understanding where to look for it. Good thing, since we'd never make it out in the light if it were." He pauses. "But that riddle could be anything."
He didn't take the note. He looked at me, and then at my book.
The one I dropped.
He's not looking at the note. He's looking at the book. The one that fell on the floor. The one I haven't opened yet.
I follow his gaze. The book on the floor is different. The leather is a lighter shade of brown, not black. And there's a faded gold title on the spine. I can just make out the words.
The Lie I Tell Myself.
My breath catches in my throat.
"That's the one," he says, a grim satisfaction in his tone. "Well done." He reaches down and picks up the book, tossing it to me. "Now, hurry up and read it. It'll have the location of the real book." He glances up at the single, dimming lightbulb. "We don't have all day."
I catch the book, my fingers fumbling. The leather is smooth and cool. I open it. The pages are filled with the same spidery, elegant script as the note. I start to read.
It's my story.
My name. Ariel. My husband. The camping trip. The knife. The moonlight. The word 'sorry.' It's all there, written down in perfect, terrifying detail.
My blood runs cold. This is impossible. No one here should know this. I have not told this man. I have not told anyone.
It only just happened.
How could anyone have written it?
My hands shake. The book feels like a lead weight in my hands. I look up at the stranger. He's watching me, his expression unreadable.
"I told you. The rooms here have different rules. They use what's in your head." He gestures at the book. "The puzzle isn't about finding a book. It's about confronting your truth. Your lie."
"What lie?" I ask, my voice a raw whisper.
"That's for you to figure out," he says, taking a step closer. "Figure it out. When you do, you'll find the location. Hurry up." He's looking at the light again, which has begun to pulse, a slow, arrhythmic flutter that makes the whole room feel like it's breathing.
The book's pages are all full. A long, long story about a woman named Ariel who did not have a single thought in her head that was not about her husband.
The book writes about how she would fold his shirts for him because he didn't like the way the laundry service did it.
It writes about how she pretended to like his friends.
It writes about how she told herself that it was her fault he was always in a bad mood when he came home.
That she was too noisy. Too clingy. Too demanding.
That it was her fault.
It writes about a million little lies.
It writes about how she told herself that the camping trip was a good idea, even though she didn't want to go. That it would be a fun way to reconnect.
That she had told herself it would fix their marriage.
It writes about how she told herself, when he pulled out the knife, that it was a joke.
That she had done something to deserve it.
Then the book stops. The last page is a blur of smeared ink. The only thing I can make out, scrawled at the bottom in a frantic, desperate hand, is a single, repeating sentence.
it must be my fault
it must be my fault
it must be my fault
The ink on that page is still wet.
It smudges on my fingers. My fingers...
They are trembling.
I look up at the stranger. His face is a mask of grim patience, but I can see the tension in the set of his jaw. He's waiting. The lightbulb is flickering faster now, a strobing, sickening pulse that throws the towering bookshelves into a nightmarish dance of light and shadow.
"The lie. What is it?" he asks, his voice a low, urgent growl.
I don't answer. My mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The grief, the pain, the terror of my death—they're all there, but they're being overshadowed by something else. Something cold and hard and sharp.
Anger.
A rage so pure and absolute it's terrifying.
It wasn't a joke.
It wasn't my fault.
He murdered me.
I close the book with a sharp snap, the sound echoing in the vast, silent room. The rage doesn't burn. It's not a fire. It's a shard of ice in my heart, cold and sharp and unyielding. It focuses me. The trembling in my hands stops. My grip on the pipe tightens until my knuckles are white.
"...Fault."