The Forgotten Pages

The third basement level of the National Library of Korea. It's been a long while since you passed the “No Entry” sign. In the aisle without fluorescent lights, the only light is a bluish-white glow pulsing in one corner of the stacks. Within that light lies a leather-bound hardcover with no title and no author. On its cover, your name is written in handwriting you've never seen before. The sound of thousands of books flapping all at once has died down, but the warning the girl left behind still lingers in your ears. Just then, a whisper that sounds like many voices layered together rises from between the bookshelves. They are the souls who live in unread books, specters preserved as records: the Forgotten Pages. In these stacks, guidance and information alike must be traded for memories, but what they want is less for you to pay the price than to hear your story. Books no one has opened in a long time lean quietly toward you. This is your first time facing them, and they wait, just a step away, for you to speak.