Salem landed face-first on something that felt like a cross between old carpet and a pile of overdue homework. His entire body ached from the fall, and for a moment, he just lay there, groaning into the dusty fibers.
Then he rolled over and froze.
Rows upon rows of books stretched endlessly in all directions, towering shelves stacked with volumes that seemed to hum with their own life. Titles flickered on the spines like glitching screens: Draft 7B—Salem Dies Early, Out of Order: Deleted Scenes, Timeline v3.1 (Do Not Open).
He sat up slowly, his heart thudding.
“Where… am I?”
A voice answered from somewhere above him, dry and amused.
> “You’re in the Author’s Library. Where all the stories go when the writer can’t make up their mind.”
Salem twisted around, but there was no one to
