Page 5 of The Alien in the Archive

“Sure,” I say, turning back to her. “Ghosts aren’t real.”

There’s something in her tone, in the texture of her thoughts, that makes me think she doesn’t quite believe it herself.

“I appreciate the advice,” I continue, slipping my ID into my bag. “But I’ll keep my focus on the living dangers for now.”

“Wise,” Davina says. “The library rewards curiosity, Page, but only when tempered with caution. Be mindful of the balance.”

“I will,” I reply, standing quickly. It’s a lie; contrary to what my given name might suggest, I’m far from patient, and even farther from cautious. The only thing stopping me from sprinting toward that gate right now is decorum.

Davina steps around the desk and ushers me out, her towering presence sending a fresh wave of nerves through me. “I’ll expect regular updates,” she says. “Stop by if you find anything worth discussing—or if the Archive pushes back too hard. You wouldn’t be my first student to need a guiding hand.”

I nod quickly, adjusting the strap of my bag. “I won’t bother you unless I need to,” I say.

“That’s exactly what I was hoping for,” she replies. “Good luck, Page.”

The hallway outside feels colder, the light dimming to a deep cerulean even though it’s still mid-afternoon. The humof Davina’s office fades, replaced by the quiet static of the Obscuary, its vast presence pressing against my senses.

It’s almost like I can hear the books—maybe the psychic texts Davina mentioned.

Or maybe ghosts are real…and I can hear their thoughts.

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Davina was right—the archives are spooky at night.

I tell myself it’s just the same row of towering shelves, the same flickering lanterns casting uneven shadows, the same faint hum of protective energy running through the walls. Nothing’s changed, not really. But there’s something about the stillness after hours, when any other researchers have gone home, that feels heavier.

Like the archives are holding their breath.

I’ve been on M’mir for three days now, and I’ve rarely stepped foot outside of the archive. Sure, I go back to the village to sleep; my cozy cottage is nice. But my work is here.

And my work is the only thing that matters.

Archival work gets you into a rhythm, too, and when I’m in that rhythm, I become relentless. The work is meditative—cataloging ancient texts, cross-referencing translated fragments, picking apart myths to find kernels of truth. None of it feels dangerous or even all that unusual, aside from the occasional moment when a book hums faintly in my hands or vanishes from the desk.

That part should bother me more than it does. But I’vetold myself—over and over—that this is just part of working with alien texts in a place like this. The books are ancient, alien, and possibly alive. The humming and disappearing are quirks of a job that isn’t fully understood, much less predictable. Davina warned me, after all. And part of me likes the idea of books with personalities.

But tonight is different.

It’s late—later than I intended to stay—but I’ve been too engrossed in my work to leave. A glow lamp hovers over the book I’m reading and sitting cross-legged at one of the narrow study tables. The text is dense, full of metaphors and half-remembered stories, but there are hints—small, tantalizing details—that tie back to Earth.

And Yrsa shed her blood amongst the stars; And seven warriors sprang forth…

The words scratch at my brain, like an itch I can’t reach. I tap my pen against my notebook, frustrated but exhilarated. Yrsa’s Cradle. The Skoll’s sacred constellation—linked to myth, prophecy, and the origins of Elixir itself. Humans had no business knowing about it in Antiquity, and yet…here it is. Buried in fragments of translated myths from Earth.

It reminds me to look at the skylights, remembering that the constellation—Yrsa’s Cradle—is supposed to be bright tonight. If I’m still in the clear, I’ll see the colors of dusk rather than the stars.

I see the stars.

Shit.

But I don’t want to leave this be, because I can’t take a scan and I can’t take pictures. I start trying to finish up with the book, scribbling notes in my notebook?—

“Page.”

It’s just a whisper, but it breaks the silence like shattered glass.

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