The air felt different that morning, thicker than usual, as if the entire city was holding its breath. Elia stepped out of her apartment and into the mist-soaked streets, the familiar rhythm of the rain already settling into her bones. The umbrella was clutched firmly in her hand, its weight a constant reminder of the force she had begun to understand but had yet to fully control.
Vito had insisted that they visit the Flooded Library, an ancient, hidden place that was said to house the memories of the city—preserved in books, in whispers, in fragments of time. Elia had heard rumors of the library before, but no one ever spoke of it openly. It was a place of mystery, a place only the most desperate or knowledgeable dared to seek.
It wasn't far from the heart of the city, tucked away in a narrow alley, obscured from view by the overgrown vines and ivy that had crept up the stone walls like a slow, creeping tide. As Elia and Vito reached the entrance, a heavy wooden door swung open, revealing a dark staircase leading downward, swallowed by the thick mist rising from the damp ground.
"I've only been here once before," Vito said, his voice low as he motioned for Elia to follow. "The Library is a living thing. It exists outside of the city's usual memory, and yet, it is deeply connected to it. Only those who have a strong connection to the past can find it."
Elia's heart raced with anticipation as she stepped into the cool, shadowed corridor. The walls were covered in faded paintings and cryptic symbols, some of them shimmering with a faint glow. There was a subtle hum in the air, as if the building itself was alive—its heartbeat thrumming in rhythm with the rain above.
They descended deeper into the earth, the stairs creaking beneath their weight, until they reached the entrance to the library itself.
It was vast—far larger than Elia had expected. Rows upon rows of weathered bookshelves stretched into the shadows, and the scent of ancient paper and mildew hung thick in the air. The shelves were not arranged in any logical order; they seemed to grow organically, following no pattern that Elia could discern. Books leaned precariously, their spines cracked and brittle, but still holding together as though they were stubbornly clinging to the stories they contained.
But what truly took Elia's breath away was the water.
The library was flooded.
Not in the way Elia had imagined, as if the books had been left to soak, but in a strange, almost ethereal manner. The water covered the floor like a glassy mirror, reflecting the rows of books and the faint light from the overhead lamps. The surface shimmered with every movement, but it didn't seem to be still water—there was a faint ripple to it, like the city's memories were flowing beneath.
Vito smiled at Elia's astonished expression. "This is where the memories of the city go when they are no longer part of the present. They're stored here, hidden from the Guild's reach. This place, Elia, is where the city's forgotten lives rest."
"But how can we… how can we access them?" Elia asked, her voice a mix of awe and uncertainty.
Vito's eyes flickered to the far side of the room, where a faint, golden light glowed softly in the shadows. "Follow me."
As they walked through the flooded space, the water didn't rise above their ankles, but it shimmered in strange patterns around their feet. The air was cool and damp, but there was a strange, tranquil beauty to it. Elia's thoughts were interrupted by a soft, almost inaudible whisper. At first, she thought it was the wind, or perhaps the sound of her own footsteps in the water, but then she heard it again—a voice, distant but distinct.
"Elia."
She stopped, her breath catching in her throat. She turned to Vito, her heart pounding.
He was already looking at her, his expression unreadable. "You're hearing it too, aren't you?"
Elia nodded. "What is that? Who—?"
"Memories," Vito explained softly. "The Library contains the echoes of those who lived here. The past is still alive in this place. Their voices… their memories are intertwined with the rain."
The voice came again, louder now, as if it were calling her name. "Elia..."
Vito moved closer, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. "Do not listen too closely. The memories here are fragile, and they can pull you in. The more you seek them, the more likely they are to claim you."
But Elia couldn't help herself. The voice had a familiar ring to it, as if it had been calling her for years, buried deep in the recesses of her mind.
"Elia, help me…" The voice pleaded.
She stepped forward, her feet moving without conscious thought, drawn by the voice, by the strange power of the memory. Vito reached out to stop her, but before he could, Elia reached out to touch the surface of the water. The moment her fingers made contact, the world around her shifted.
Her vision blurred, and the Library faded, replaced by a flood of images—her mother, standing in the rain, her face determined and solemn. Elia saw her mother holding the very same umbrella, the glass handle glowing faintly in the storm. She was speaking, but the words were indistinct, muffled by the crashing rain.
"Elia… it's not too late. You have to remember. The umbrella is the key—it will protect you. But only if you listen."
Then, just as quickly as it had come, the vision vanished, leaving Elia breathless and disoriented. She staggered back, the flood of memories overwhelming her. Her mother's face—so vivid, so alive—had been right in front of her.
"Elia?" Vito's voice broke through the haze. "Did you see something?"
She nodded, struggling to catch her breath. "It was her… my mother. She said something about the umbrella. She—she's alive in the memories, Vito. She's still here."
Vito didn't seem surprised, but there was a hint of concern in his eyes. "Yes. Your mother's presence is here. And she's trying to help you. But be careful, Elia. The deeper you go, the harder it becomes to tell what's real."
Elia looked down at the water, its surface now still, as though the storm had passed. The voice was gone, but the weight of the memory lingered, heavy on her chest. Her mother was still out there—lost, but not forgotten. And the umbrella, the key to unlocking everything, was still in her hands.
"This place," she whispered, more to herself than to Vito. "It's where the city's past lives. The memories are alive in the water. I can feel them."
Vito nodded, his expression unreadable. "Yes, and you must learn to navigate them carefully. The flood here is constant—it never stops. But it can drown you if you're not careful. The deeper you go into the past, the harder it is to return to the present."
Elia clenched the umbrella tighter. She wasn't sure if she was ready for the journey ahead, but one thing was certain—the more she uncovered, the more her mother's words resonated: The umbrella was the key. And she would unlock the city's past, no matter the cost.