Prague, Czech Republic – The Excavation Site
Ethan’s pulse pounded in his ears. His phone screen was still illuminated in his hand, the search results glaring back at him. There were no texts from Adam. No calls. No emails.
No proof he had ever existed.
It was impossible.
Adam was real. He had been there just this morning, convincing Ethan to take this assignment.
And now?
Nothing.
He could feel his brain trying to compensate, trying to fill the gaps with some rational explanation. Maybe he had deleted the texts by accident. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, an odd effect of exhaustion or stress.
But the logical part of him—the part that had spent his career dissecting the mechanics of language, the structures of thought—knew better.
This wasn’t just forgetfulness.
Something had changed.
Something had been rewritten.
Kovač stepped closer, her voice tense. “Ethan, I need you to listen to me. You have to put that book down. Right now.”
Her urgency barely registered. His fingers hovered over the screen, and before he could stop himself, he opened his photo gallery.
If Adam had been erased from his texts, he would still be in pictures, right?
But as Ethan scrolled, his breath hitched.
There were no photos of Adam.
Not a single one.
There should have been hundreds—their trip to Istanbul, the research conference in London, the blurry shots from that awful dive bar in Berlin.
They were all gone.
Not deleted. Removed.
Like they had never existed in the first place.
The Fracturing of Memory
A cold sweat broke out along Ethan’s spine. His body felt disconnected, as if his brain were misfiring, struggling to comprehend the disconnect between what he knew and what he was seeing.
“Tell me you remember him,” he said, his voice hoarse, turning to Kovač.
Her brow furrowed. “Ethan, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
His chest tightened.
“Adam,” he said, louder this time. “My best friend. The one who got me into this. You have to remember.”
Kovač’s expression didn’t change. There was no flicker of recognition, no hesitation.
“That name means nothing to me,” she said softly.
A deep, clawing sense of wrongness settled over Ethan.
Adam hadn’t just disappeared.
He had been erased.
Not just from the world.
From memory.
From history.
The Nature of the Book
The manuscript still sat in his hands, heavier than before. His eyes drifted back to the first page—the line he had spoken aloud.
“The one who speaks will reshape the world.”
A phrase that had seemed like an abstract riddle just minutes ago was now something far more literal.
His stomach twisted.
If one sentence had done this…
What would happen if he spoke more?
Ethan swallowed hard and closed the book. He wanted to drop it, to put as much distance between himself and that damned thing as possible, but some part of him—some deep, instinctive curiosity—refused to let go.
Kovač exhaled sharply. “This is exactly what happened with the others.”
Ethan’s head snapped up. “What others?”
She hesitated, but then she glanced toward the entrance of the excavation chamber, as if someone—or something—might be listening.
“The scholars before you,” she admitted. “The ones who vanished. They all… changed before they disappeared. They started talking about things that didn’t make sense. People who had never existed. Events that had never happened. And then…”
She trailed off.
“And then what?” Ethan pressed.
“They were just… gone.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “And I don’t mean missing. I mean there’s no record they were ever here.”
Ethan shivered.
This wasn’t just a book.
It was something else.
Something that shouldn’t exist.
The First Warning
Kovač squared her shoulders. “Listen to me, Ethan. I don’t know what that book is, but I know this—it doesn’t behave like anything we’ve ever encountered. It’s not just a text. It’s not a forgotten dialect.”
Her next words sent a chill down his spine.
“It’s a mechanism.”
He frowned. “A mechanism for what?”
She looked him dead in the eyes.
“To rewrite reality.”
A lump formed in his throat. “That’s insane.”
“Is it?” she shot back. “Because right now, you’re telling me a man named Adam existed, and yet there’s no proof of him anywhere. Are you absolutely certain that he was real?”
“Yes!” Ethan snapped. “I remember him! Just because there’s no proof doesn’t mean—”
He stopped.
Because suddenly, for the first time since this started…
He wasn’t completely sure.
He remembered the name.
But what if his memories of Adam were nothing more than ghost echoes?
What if Adam had been erased so completely that the only thing that remained was a loose thread of memory, one that would fade until he, too, forgot?
Just like the others.
A sharp bang echoed from the far end of the chamber.
Both of them turned sharply.
Footsteps.
Fast. Approaching.
A group of figures in dark coats emerged from the stone corridor, moving with precision. Their eyes locked onto Ethan.
He didn’t know who they were, but his gut told him they weren’t friendly.
Kovač paled.
“The Wardens,” she murmured.
Ethan’s stomach dropped. “The who?”
Kovač backed away. “They’re the ones who tried to bury the book. The ones who—”
The man in the lead raised a gun.
“Put the manuscript down,” he ordered. His voice was calm, steady. “Now.”
Ethan froze.
Kovač’s hand gripped his sleeve. “Ethan, listen to them. They are not people you want to cross.”
His heart slammed against his ribs.
The Wardens.
Who the hell were they?
And why were they willing to kill to keep this book unread?
Ethan’s grip on the manuscript tightened.
Because if these people were trying to erase it from history—
Then that meant it contained something someone didn’t want the world to know.
And that made him want to read it even more.
The Decision
Time stretched like elastic in the tense silence of the chamber. Ethan’s mind raced through options, each more desperate than the last.
The lead Warden took a measured step forward, his gun unwavering. “Professor Vaughn, you don’t understand what you’re holding.” His accent was difficult to place—neither Eastern European nor Western. Something else entirely. “That manuscript isn’t meant to be read by humans.”
Ethan’s throat went dry. “What do you mean ‘by humans’?”
The man’s face remained impassive, but Ethan caught the briefest flicker in his eyes—not fear, exactly, but something close to reverence.
“That book was written long before mankind walked the earth,” the Warden said. “It was buried for a reason.”
Kovač edged closer to Ethan. “They’ve been monitoring the excavation site from the beginning,” she whispered. “I thought they were just another government agency.”
The lead Warden’s gaze shifted to her. “Dr. Kovač, step away from him. Now.”
She hesitated, visibly torn. Whatever these Wardens were, she feared them—but she also seemed to fear what would happen if Ethan continued reading the manuscript.
“Helena,” Ethan said quietly, using her first name for the first time. “What do you know about them?”
Before she could answer, the manuscript in Ethan’s hands began to warm. Not uncomfortably, but noticeably—like it was responding to the presence of the Wardens.
Or to his fear.
“Last warning,” the lead Warden called out. “Put it down, or we’ll take it from you.”
Ethan’s fingers tightened around the book. He could drop it, surrender it to these mysterious figures—potentially save himself.
But what about Adam?
What about the truth?
His gaze dropped to the manuscript’s open page. The symbols had shifted again, rearranging themselves into what looked like a new phrase.
The boundary between memory and reality is thinner than paper.
The words weren’t on the page—they were in his mind, translating themselves without his conscious effort.
He knew, with a sudden, terrible certainty, that if he surrendered the book now, he would forget Adam completely. Whatever thin thread of memory remained would be severed forever.
He couldn’t let that happen.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, though he wasn’t sure if he was speaking to Kovač or to himself.
And then, before the Wardens could reach him, he read the next line aloud:
“Between remembering and forgetting lies the door.“
The effect was immediate. The air in the chamber grew thick, heavy, as if gravity itself had intensified. The Wardens froze mid-step, their movements slowing to an impossible crawl.
Kovač’s eyes widened in horror. “What have you done?”
Ethan felt it—a tearing sensation, as if reality itself were being unstitched around them. The stone walls of the chamber began to shimmer, like heat rising from pavement.
“I had to,” he said, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears. “Adam is real. I need to know what happened to him.”
The lead Warden’s mouth opened in what might have been a scream, but no sound emerged. His body seemed to stretch and distort, elongating in a way that defied physics.
The manuscript’s pages turned on their own, faster now, a blur of symbols and parchment.
“Ethan!” Kovač grabbed his arm, her fingers digging into his flesh. “Stop this! You don’t know what you’re unleashing!”
But it was too late.
The chamber dissolved around them, the solid stone melting away like fog under sunlight. In its place, strange geometric patterns formed and reformed, creating impossible architectures that seemed to fold in on themselves.
And through it all, Ethan held onto two things: the manuscript, and the memory of Adam.
The Unwritten Place
When the world solidified again, they were no longer in the excavation site.
Ethan gasped, nearly dropping the manuscript as he took in their new surroundings. They stood in what appeared to be a vast library—but unlike any he had ever seen. The ceiling arched impossibly high, disappearing into shadows. Shelves of books stretched in all directions, some defying gravity, others seeming to phase in and out of existence.
And the books…
Each one identical to the manuscript he held in his hands.
Thousands of them. Perhaps millions.
“What is this place?” he whispered.
Kovač stood beside him, her face ashen. “This isn’t possible.”
“And yet, here we are,” came a voice from behind them.
They spun around to find a figure standing in the shadows between two towering bookshelves. Not one of the Wardens—this was someone else entirely.
As the figure stepped forward, Ethan’s breath caught in his throat.
It was Adam.
And not Adam.
The man before them had Adam’s features—the same eyes, the same jawline—but there was something fundamentally wrong about him. His movements were too fluid, too precise. His skin had an almost translucent quality to it, as if light passed partially through him.
“Hello, Ethan,” the not-quite-Adam said, his voice layered with harmonics that made Ethan’s teeth ache. “I’ve been waiting for you to find your way here.”
Ethan took an involuntary step back. “You’re not Adam.”
The being smiled—a perfect imitation of his friend’s smile, yet somehow hollow. “No. But I borrowed his form from your memory. It seemed… appropriate.”
“What have you done with him?” Ethan demanded, his voice rising. “Where is the real Adam?”
The being gestured around them, at the endless library of identical manuscripts. “He’s here. In a manner of speaking. Just as you are now here.”
Kovač grabbed Ethan’s wrist, her nails digging into his skin. “We need to leave,” she hissed. “Now.”
The being tilted its head, regarding her with detached curiosity. “Dr. Helena Kovač. You’ve been so close to the truth for so long, and yet you’ve refused to see it.”
Her face drained of color. “How do you know me?”
“I know everyone who has ever touched a manuscript,” it replied simply. “Just as I know that you’ve suspected what these books really are. You simply lacked the courage to speak the words yourself.”
Ethan looked between them, trying to process what was happening. “What are these books? What is this place?”
The being that looked like Adam smiled again. “This is the Library of Unwritten Realities. And these—” it gestured to the countless identical manuscripts, “—are not books. They are pathways.”
“Pathways to what?” Ethan asked, though a part of him already suspected the answer.
“To everywhere that could be. To every possibility. Every variation. Every reality that might exist, if only someone would speak it into being.”
The implications hit Ethan like a physical blow. “You’re saying these books can create… alternate realities?”
“Not create,” the being corrected. “Navigate. The realities already exist. The language merely allows one to move between them.”
Kovač shook her head vehemently. “This is madness.”
“Is it?” the being countered. “You humans have long suspected the existence of multiple universes. Parallel dimensions. You’ve simply lacked the means to access them.” It gestured to the manuscript in Ethan’s hands. “Until now.”
Ethan felt dizzy with the implications. “And Adam? The real Adam? What happened to him?”
The being’s expression shifted to something almost like pity. “He read too much. Spoke too many words. Crossed too many boundaries.”
“You’re saying he’s lost? Trapped between realities?”
“I’m saying,” the being replied carefully, “that he became unwritten.”
The phrase sent a chill down Ethan’s spine. “What does that mean?”
“It means he exists everywhere and nowhere. His essence scattered across infinite possibilities.” The being stepped closer. “But you could find him, Ethan. If you were willing to read more. To speak the words that would open the right doors.”
Kovač tugged at Ethan’s arm. “Don’t listen to it. This is exactly what happened to the others.”
The being turned its unsettling gaze toward her. “The others lacked the necessary understanding. They read blindly, without purpose. Ethan is different. He’s already beginning to comprehend the language.”
It was true, Ethan realized with a start. The symbols in the manuscript were becoming clearer to him, more legible with each passing moment. As if the language itself were seeping into his consciousness.
“If I keep reading,” he said slowly, “I could find Adam? Bring him back?”
“Ethan, no!” Kovač pleaded.
But the being nodded. “You could find him. Though ‘bringing him back’ may not be possible in the way you imagine. The Adam you knew no longer exists in the form you remember.”
“What would happen to me?” Ethan asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The being’s expression became unreadable. “The more you read, the more you speak, the more you become like the language itself—unbound by a single reality.”
“You mean I’d disappear too,” Ethan said, understanding dawning. “Become… unwritten.”
“Not disappear,” the being corrected. “Transform. Evolve beyond the constraints of a single existence.”
Kovač was shaking now, her fear palpable. “Ethan, please. We need to go back.”
“Back where?” he asked, suddenly uncertain. “The Wardens were going to kill us.”
“We’ll figure something out,” she insisted. “But this—” she gestured wildly at the impossible library around them, “—this is not the answer.”
The being that wore Adam’s face stepped back, melting partially into the shadows between the shelves. “The choice is yours, Ethan Vaughn. Read more, and find your friend—at the cost of your current existence. Or close the book, and return to a world where he never existed at all.”
Ethan looked down at the manuscript in his hands, the weight of it somehow both terrifying and comforting. The symbols on the page seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat, calling to him.
He thought of Adam—his laugh, his brilliance, the decades of friendship they had shared. A friendship that, according to the rest of the world, had never happened.
“How do I know any of this is real?” he asked, his voice cracking. “How do I know you’re not just some hallucination caused by this… this thing?” He held up the manuscript.
The being smiled—that not-quite-right smile that made Ethan’s skin crawl. “You don’t. That’s the nature of reality, Ethan. It’s subjective. Malleable. Defined by perception.”
“That’s not an answer,” Ethan shot back.
“Isn’t it?” The being’s form rippled, like a reflection in disturbed water. “Every time you read a book, you create a reality in your mind. Every time you dream, you experience a reality that exists only for you. Is that any less real than what you call objective reality?”
Before Ethan could respond, a distant sound echoed through the impossible library—a rhythmic pounding, like heavy footsteps approaching.
The being’s expression darkened. “The Wardens. They’ve found a way through.”
“How is that possible?” Kovač demanded.
“They have their own manuscripts,” the being explained. “Their own speakers. They’ve dedicated centuries to preserving the barriers between realities.”
The pounding grew louder, and with it came voices—distorted, as if traveling through water, but unmistakably human.
“You need to decide, Ethan,” the being urged. “Now.”
Ethan looked from the manuscript to Kovač, whose face was a mask of fear and desperation. Then back to the being wearing his best friend’s face.
“If I keep reading,” he said, thinking aloud, “I might find Adam. But I might lose myself in the process.”
“Yes,” the being confirmed.
“And if I stop now, go back…”
“Adam remains unwritten. Forgotten by everyone except you. And eventually, even your memories of him will fade.”
The pounding grew more insistent. Shelves of manuscripts began to tremble, some books falling to the floor where they opened on their own, symbols climbing from their pages like smoke.
Kovač grabbed his arm. “Ethan, please. We have to go back.”
“The barriers are weakening,” the being warned. “Soon the choice will be made for you.”
Ethan’s mind raced. He couldn’t abandon Adam—not if there was even a chance of finding him. But he also couldn’t ignore the terror in Kovač’s eyes, or the warning in the being’s words about becoming “unwritten.”
The manuscript’s pages turned on their own, stopping on a new passage. The symbols rearranged themselves in Ethan’s mind, forming words:
To find what is lost, you must first lose yourself.
He knew, with bone-deep certainty, that if he read this aloud, there would be no going back.
The pounding had become a cacophony now, the entire library shaking with the force of it. Cracks appeared in the air itself, like fractures in glass, through which Ethan caught glimpses of the Wardens—their forms distorted, elongated, moving with unnatural speed.
“Decide,” the being urged again.
Ethan looked into Kovač’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “But I have to find him.”
Her expression crumpled. “Ethan, don’t—”
But his decision was made. Taking a deep breath, he read the next line aloud:
“Between what was and what could be, I choose the unwritten path.“
The library exploded into light—a blinding, kaleidoscopic wave that washed over them. Ethan felt his body become insubstantial, his consciousness expanding outward, no longer contained by flesh and bone.
The last thing he saw before reality dissolved completely was Kovač’s face, tears streaming down her cheeks as she reached for him—her fingers passing through his now-translucent form.
And then he was everywhere.
And nowhere.
Unwritten.
Searching for Adam in the infinite spaces between words.