Radit ran until his lungs burned. The tunnel seemed endless, twisting and branching like a maze. The cracks in the ground followed him, spreading out like spiderwebs wherever he stepped. Sometimes, he glanced back and swore he saw the floor behind him dissolving, the darkness swallowing it whole.
Finally, he stumbled into a wider chamber. Faint yellow lights flickered overhead, dangling from frayed wires. Old metal shelves lined the walls, stacked with dusty boxes, papers, and books. The air smelled of mold and ink.
Radit collapsed onto his knees, clutching his notebook. He could still feel the soft vibration of the cracks in the floor, as if the whole place was trembling under some invisible force.
He heard movement behind the shelves — soft footsteps. He held his breath.
A figure stepped into view: a middle-aged man in a threadbare gray coat, arms full of old files. His hair was messy, streaked with white. He looked just as startled as Radit.
"Who are you?" the man asked, his voice raspy.
Radit opened his mouth, but no words came. He glanced down at the man's hands — the files he carried seemed half-faded, as though they were turning transparent. Yet the man clutched them desperately, like they might disappear forever.
"Answer me!" the man snapped. He dropped the files onto a nearby table, where they flickered like bad reception on a TV screen. "You're not supposed to be down here. No one comes down here anymore."
"I— I don't know where this is," Radit managed. "My apartment… it vanished. The walls, the floor… they just… erased themselves."
The man's eyes narrowed. "You saw it happen while you were inside?"
Radit nodded, breathing hard. "I woke up, and… everything was disappearing. Then I fell through… and ended up here."
The man let out a low whistle. "That's rare. Usually people only see the aftermath — empty lots, vanished houses. You saw the process."
"Who are you?" Radit asked, his voice trembling.
"They call me the Archivist," the man said. "Or… they used to. Back when there were people left to call me anything."
Radit frowned. "Archivist… of what?"
The man gestured around the dim chamber. "Of this city. Or what's left of it. These…" he tapped one of the boxes on the shelves, "are records of everything that's been erased. Every building, every street, every person. I've been trying to hold onto them, keep them from fading completely."
Radit looked at the shelves. Some boxes were solid, others flickered like ghosts. A few were so transparent he could almost see through them.
"It doesn't work anymore," the Archivist whispered. "The city is unraveling faster than I can document it. I thought… maybe if I wrote it down, I could anchor it in place. But lately…" He trailed off, staring at the trembling boxes.
Radit swallowed hard. "I've been writing too," he said. "I've been keeping notes… lists of what vanished each night. I thought I was just… I don't know… collecting evidence."
The Archivist's head snapped up. "You write it? On paper?"
Radit nodded, holding up his battered notebook. "Every day. Every night. Everything I see."
For a second, the Archivist just stared. Then, with surprising speed, he crossed the room and grabbed Radit's notebook. His hands trembled as he flipped through the pages — most of them blank now, after the fall. But the last line Radit had written glowed faintly in the dim light: *The apartment disappeared around me.*
"Do you know what this means?" the Archivist whispered.
Radit shook his head. "No… I… I just write it down so I don't forget."
The Archivist slammed the notebook shut, eyes wide. "It means you're like me. Maybe stronger. When you write, the world responds. The city shifts. You can slow the unraveling… or maybe… maybe even cause it."
Radit stepped back, horrified. "No… I never wanted to—"
"Want has nothing to do with it," the Archivist snapped. "This place listens. It listens to words. And people like us… we're its narrators, whether we want to be or not."
Radit felt dizzy. The shelves seemed to ripple around him, as if the whole chamber was breathing. "What… what do we do, then? How do we stop it?"
The Archivist leaned in close, voice lowering. "We write. But we have to be careful. Every sentence is a nail in this city's coffin, or a plank to rebuild it. You can't just scribble random notes anymore. You have to be deliberate. Precise."
He shoved the notebook back into Radit's hands. "If you're here, it means the city chose you. Or maybe… it's warning you. Either way, we have to work together."
Radit looked down at the blank pages, feeling the weight of them. His mind raced — the missing buildings, the cryptic messages in the walls, the whisper in the tunnel.
Suddenly, the ground shook violently. A deep rumble echoed through the chamber, and a shelf toppled over, scattering files that evaporated the instant they hit the floor.
"It's starting again!" the Archivist shouted. He grabbed Radit's arm. "Write something — anything! Anchor this room, or we'll lose it too!"
Radit's heart pounded. He fumbled with the pencil, staring at the blank page. His hands trembled as he wrote the first words that came to mind:
*This room exists. The shelves are real. The Archivist stands beside me.*
The rumbling slowed, then faded.
The Archivist let out a shaky breath. "Good," he whispered. "Very good."
Radit looked up, tears in his eyes. "I don't understand any of this," he whispered.
The Archivist placed a hand on his shoulder. "Neither do I. But if we don't try… there won't be a city left to understand."
And somewhere in the dark, something scratched at the walls — the sound of the city itself, waiting for their next sentence.