Episode 2 – The Blank Page
"Tell me what you desire," a voice whispered through the pages.
"And I'll teach you what you're willing to lose."
---
He stared at it for a long time.
When he finally looked up, the library was empty. The world outside had changed. The faces bore other names. Memories mingled. Only the Codex remained.
And in the distance, a child approached, curious.
Léandre didn't answer. He slowly closed the Codex, his heart pounding. The child disappeared like a mirage in the reflections of the glass. All was silent again, but the silence no longer brought peace. There was a living tension in the air, as if every object around him was waiting for him to resume.
That night, he took the Codex home, wrapped in a black linen blanket, his hands trembling. He didn't dare open it. Not yet. He placed it in the attic, on a bare table, under an oil lamp. The place smelled of old wood and cold dust.
From that night on, his memories changed order. Familiar people called him by names he didn't recognize. Photos at home showed faces that seemed to float, slightly out of sync. Even his own voice on the phone seemed foreign.
He tried to call Arielle. No dial tone. Milo? Voicemail without a first name. Yuri, silent. Elora, absent. All the names faded, as if swallowed by a well. There was only him. And the Codex. And that still-blank page, at the heart of the book, vibrating gently, as if breathing on its own.
So he began to write.
---
The Codex had been moved. Wrapped in a black linen cover, it now lay in Léandre's attic, placed on a bare table lit by a flickering oil lamp. The air was thick with a mingled scent of old wood and damp dust, and yet the book seemed almost alive, vibrating with an invisible presence.
In the following days, Léandre's world shifted imperceptibly. Familiar faces distorted in his memories, names became unfamiliar, and every reflection in a mirror seemed to carry an unknown glow. His calls to Arielle remained unanswered, Milo had vanished into silence, Yuri remained silent, and Elora had disappeared without a trace. All faded away, absorbed by a void that only the Codex seemed to inhabit.
Night after night, the waiting grew heavier. The blank page at the center of the tome pulsed faintly, like a heart about to awaken. Léandre knew it was up to him to write, to inscribe what no one before him had dared to trace. Yet fear, as visceral as an icy poison, held him back.
One night, as the house slumbered beneath a thick veil of darkness, Léandre felt a force irresistibly pulling him toward the attic. His hands trembled as he lifted the linen cover. He sat, panting, facing the immaculate page. A warm droplet beaded from his finger, gently hitting the parchment. The page seemed to come to life, rippling like the surface of murky water.
He picked up the quill, hesitated for a moment, then placed it on the paper. The words flowed, not only from his mind, but as if dictated by a distant and imperious voice. The letters were inscribed with a sinister beauty, an ancient chant from the depths. Each sentence was an opening, each phrase a silent pact.
As this nocturnal writing progressed, the house was transformed. Shadows lengthened in the corners of the rooms, insidious whispers seeped between the walls. The Codex now breathed with Leander, bound to him by an invisible oath.
When dawn broke, he finally put down his quill. His reflection in the mirror now bore a new, almost unreal radiance. He was both the author and the prisoner of a story that knew no end.
And outside, in the changed world, a child continued to approach, his gaze shining with a curiosity that defied time.