The fluorescent light buzzed weakly above, flickering every few seconds.
Zhao Mingli didn't look up. He'd grown used to its rhythm— on, off, on again as if the room itself were trying to blink sleep from its eyes.
A stack of notes surrounded him like crumbling walls. The table beneath his hands was scarred with ink stains, the ghosts of sleepless nights. His handwriting had become smaller, tighter— as though afraid of the silence between words.
He rubbed his temples and exhaled slowly. His thoughts felt heavy, like wet paper.
It's almost morning again. No point stopping now. I'm so close.
The photo on the table showed a half-eroded tablet recovered from a drowned ruin. Its lines were simple yet unnerving— a language that seemed to breathe when he looked at it too long.
He adjusted his glasses and traced the symbols once more.
𐑒𐑖𐑺𐑑𐑙𐑾𐑯
He had copied it countless times. Every attempt remained the same—confusion, failure, and obsession.
What kind of language repeats itself inside the mind? He thought. It doesn't belong to any known structure… yet, it feels so familiar.
The projector's light dimmed. The air thickened, pressing faintly against his eardrums. He paused, pen hovering.
A faint draft brushed at the back of his neck.
No windows are open.
He frowned. "Not again…"
He dipped the pen, steadying his breath. The ink clung to the nib like oil.
Calm down. Hallucinations from exhaustion. That's all it is. Just finish the note, then sleep.
He began to write the final line.
The ink shimmered. Refused to dry. The symbols quivered like something alive.
And then a whisper— soft, inside his skull— slid through his thoughts.
You have written my name.
His spine stiffened. He turned, half expecting someone behind him.
Nothing. Just books, dust, and that flickering light.
He forced a slow breath. Auditory distortion. Classic sleep deprivation. Don't panic.
He picked up the pen again. His fingers shook slightly.
But the link on the page rippled.
Not metaphorically— literally, like wind over water.
The whisper came again, gentle and patient.
Every word has a home. Every name, a place to return to.
Mingli's throat went dry. He stared at the letters.
They began to sink into the paper, vanishing, leaving behind faint black veins that crept outward.
This isn't real. Just stop. Stop writing.
He stumbled back, knocking a stack of notes to the floor. The flutter of paper filled the room, but no sound reached his ears.
He looked down. Ink was spilling from the table, spreading across the floor, reflecting the projector's dim glow.
His reflection looked back at him— but the expression wasn't his own. Calm. Almost amused.
It smiled.
You finally listened, it whispered, with his voice.
Cold pressure coiled around his ankles. The ink climbed, weightless yet suffocating. He gasped, tried to move— but the air felt like water.
He reached for the door, for the light switch, for anything real. His hand passed through the air like through liquid glass.
His last coherent thought flickered through the rising darkness:
So, this is what understanding feels like.
He didn't scream. The sound would've been meaningless here.
The ink swallowed him whole. The papers floated briefly, then settled.
The projector dimmed one final time and went out.
For a while, the room was silent.
Then, faintly, a whisper:
You have written my name.
And far away— in a world that smelled faintly of salt, candle wax, and parchment— Cyril Veyrault woke up from a dream he couldn't remember.
There was ink on his hands.
And in the silence that followed, he realised something terrifying.
He still remembered the word.