Page 68 of The Alien in the Archive

It’s not the first time I’ve found myself restless in the quiet. Lately, that’s been my new normal. Page lingers in my thoughts. She’s always there, her presence as persistent as the dust and shadows of the Obscuary. But tonight, it’s even worse, because I saw the sky with her tonight and I didn’t want to come back.

Not without her, at least.

I close my eyes, leaning back against the worn velvet of the chair. For centuries, I’ve perfected the art of detachment. It’s safe, clean, and efficient. Detachment is what kept mealive, hidden, and whole. But Page has shattered that careful practice with her relentless curiosity, her maddening optimism, and that infuriating way she looks at me as if I’m someone worth knowing.

There’s no point in considering the should-haves and what-ifs anymore; there were a thousand moments when I could have pushed her away, and I didn’t.

And now…she’s pulling me out of my shell.

I want to live. I want to travel the galaxy with her.

The realization leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I know how selfish it is to want that. She has a life—brilliant and promising—and I shouldn’t be dragging her down into the dark pit of my existence. But when she smiles at me, when her hand brushes mine, when her thoughts mingle with mine, even for a second…

I can’t let go.

With a groan, I push myself out of the chair and pace the length of the room. The air feels too still, my thoughts too loud. Page’s mind is right there, brushing against the edges of mine. It would be so easy to join her dreams for another encounter. Too easy.

But I can’t.

I keep telling her we need to take things slow, but I’m the one rushing ahead. Being with her is like stepping into sunlight for the first time in ages. Warm, blinding, so tempting it’s terrifying.

A sudden rustling breaks through my thoughts, and I turn to see Ashlan dragging one of my books from the pile by my chair. His antennae bob as his claws snag at the pages, tiny teeth bared to shred it to pieces.

He’s like this with paperbacks, and if I disliked the book, I’ll normally let him take it…but not these. I plan on reading these again.

“Ashlan,” I snap, striding over. “Not that one.”

The lumivix looks up at me, unrepentant and deeply annoyed, the book still trapped beneath his claws. I sigh and crouch down to retrieve it, findingThe Pirate’s Bride.I scowl at him, shaking my head.

“That one’s my favorite, Ashlan,” I mutter. “Leave it alone.”

He scampers away, off to destroy something else, I’m sure. But as I move to place the book down on the table, something catches my eye.

Page’s blank notebook.

It appears to be old but unused—leather-bound, the pages thick and rough. For a moment, I stare at it.

Then I go back to my chair and sit down, searching for a pen in the piles of books.

If I need something to do…I could write.

The words come slowly at first, hesitantly. Writing extensively—beyond Page’s exercises—in Borean script feels strange after so long, the lines and curves foreign beneath my hand.

But the rhythm returns.

And the memories come with it—memories I didn’t even realize I’d forgotten.

I start from the beginning: the birth of a culture in a snowy expanse, early cities constructed around Elixir wellsprings. They granted us long lives and pleasures, and powers beyond our imaginations. That was, of course, before I was born—to parents whose names I no longer recall—but it made us able to live long enough to advance quickly.

And advance we did.

Industry came quickly, then colonization of other continents…eradication of those who stood in our way. Once the planet was ours, we seized on the notion of space travel and we expanded.

I was born after the other peoples of Borealis had been extinguished, but my colleagues and I tried to learn about them. We unearthed their artifacts and cities, studied their languages. We saw them as worthy, though our ancestors hadn’t.

And yet…others felt we had more to destroy.

My hand falters as faces rise unbidden in my mind: colleagues, friends, people I haven’t allowed myself to think about in centuries. My mentor, who taught me his wry humor. People who believed in me, trusted me.

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