Page 7 of The Alien in the Archive

Still, it stops me cold.

Silence falls over the stacks. I glance back one last time, finding nothing but an empty corridor. No one is chasing me; no one is here who isn’t supposed to be.

I take the few final steps and scan my ID card, and it’s like nails on a chalkboard when the gate creaks open with the scratch of metal on stone. I step through as soon as I can, eager to escape the dark archive, the breeze of the main hallway rushing over me like a breath of fresh air.

The gate closes behind me with a heavy thud.

I’m out.

I breathe.

But it feels hollow, like inhaling air too thin to fill my lungs. The archives have a way of sinking into you, of staying in your bones even after you’ve left.

I stand there for a long moment, clutching my bag to my side, trying to regain any semblance of composure. My heart is pounding, my skin crawling with the lingering sensation of being watched.

Davina told me that ghosts aren’t real, that she’s never seen anything in the Archive.

But standing there, staring at the now-closed gate, I’m not so sure.

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Idon’t see the ghost again.

I don’t go back to the Archive at night.

And life becomes…well, a strange mix of extraordinary and mundane.

By day, I weave through breathtaking halls, towering stacks, and vast chambers, each archive more magnificent than the last. I split my time between the main library and the Obscuary, digging through ancient texts and piecing together fragments of forgotten stories. I’ve learned to navigate the floating platforms, to ride the bullet trains that can take you to the other side of the planet in a matter of hours, to get lost (and un-lost) in the endless corridors that twist and turn like they’re alive.

The Grand Library is everything I ever dreamed of. No—it’s more. The architecture alone is an alien wonder: towering coral spires, chambers with glowing fungi embedded in the stone, golden orbs that light the paths with a faint hum of energy. The constant murmur of scholars fills the air, hundreds of languages overlapping but never chaotic. Each wing feels like a world unto itself—some are sleek andmodern, others ancient and overgrown, vines twisting through shattered windows and wrapping around stone columns.

But then there’s the ordinary parts. The parts that remind me I’m still just Patience McRae from Boston.

Breakfast in the dining hall, where human pastries are served alongside alien confections. Study groups in the courtyard, where little kids run around fellowship students and ancient scholars.

And there’s that ever-persistent ache in my back after hours hunched over a desk.

A distraction from listening to others’ thoughts.

I’ve been keeping my mind carefully shielded, but it’s exhausting. The constant buzz of psychic energy never truly stops—not here, not in a city filled with so many brilliant minds. Sometimes I catch snippets of conversations in my head, half-formed thoughts that float into my awareness before I can push them away. Most of the time it’s harmless. But every now and then, something will slip through—something sharp, something hungry.

Tonight, it’s just me and a stack of notes at a table in one of the study nooks in the main library—the same way I spend most nights. The room is quiet, lit by a few hovering glow lamps. Outside the windows, the coral spires of the Nautilum rise like skeletal fingers, their bioluminescent domes casting an eerie, wavering glow through the dark water. The faint hiss of bubbles and creak of underwater currents seem to echo faintly in the quiet study nook. Somewhere below, thousands of Merati archivists glide through the water, perfectly serene.

The Nautilum is a place I haven’t yet visited, but I’ve heard the stories: an underwater labyrinth of knowledge, accessible only by submersible pods. The thought of it fills me with both awe and jealousy. What would it be like to driftthrough the water, to have nothing but silence and endless shelves of books surrounding you?

Jesus.

When I start fantasizing about other libraries, I know it’s time to take a break.

I rub my eyes and sit back, staring at the fragmented sentences in my notebook. The pieces don’t fit—not yet, anyway. I’ve been trying to trace the Skoll expeditions to Earth, hoping to find a pattern, a purpose…but every lead is a dead end. My notes are starting to look like the ramblings of someone who’s spent too much time in the shadows.

The thought makes me glance at the window to my left, but this time I find my reflection rather than the Mer Archive. My brown hair is tousled, dark smudges under my grey eyes. That girl over there? She looks like she hasn’t seen the sun in weeks.

To be fair, that isn’t far from the truth.

I sigh, closing my notebook. It’s not just the work—it’s this sense of urgency that’s been gnawing at me since I arrived. Like I’m running out of time to find something important, something I can’t even name yet.

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