They woke me before the ash-light rose.
A soft knock—measured, controlled—echoed through the chamber. I was already awake, staring at the stone ceiling, my thoughts tangled in fire and silence. Sleep had offered me no mercy. Only fragments of warmth, a voice I could not place, and the constant pull of awareness that did not fade when my eyes opened.
"Annie."
The name again.
It followed me as I rose, as I dressed, as the door opened to reveal two palace attendants waiting without expression. They did not speak as they led me through corridors I had not seen before—lower levels, quieter halls, places where the walls were etched with older symbols, deeper scars.
"This is where you will work," one of them finally said.
The chamber we entered was vast and dim, lit by slow-burning braziers that cast long shadows across shelves of scrolls and stone tablets. The air was cooler here, heavy with age and memory.
"The Archive," the attendant continued. "You will clean. Organize. Touch nothing unless instructed."
"What is this place?" I asked.
She hesitated. "It remembers."
They left me alone.
I moved slowly between the shelves, brushing ash from surfaces that had not been disturbed in centuries. The work was quiet, methodical—almost peaceful. Too peaceful for a realm like this.
As my fingers passed near a tablet, heat flared sharply through my palm. I gasped and jerked back.
The symbol etched into the stone glowed faintly, then dimmed.
I stared at my hand. Unmarked. Whole.
"That should not have happened."
His voice came from behind me.
I turned too quickly, my heart leaping into my throat. He stood just inside the chamber, watching me with an intensity that made the air tighten.
"I didn't touch it," I said immediately.
"I know," he replied.
He approached the tablet, his presence changing the room—pressure settling, warmth rising. He placed his hand over the symbol. It went dark instantly.
"This archive does not respond to mortals," he said. "Or to demons."
"Then why did it respond to me?" I asked.
His jaw tightened.
"That is what concerns me."
He studied me carefully now, not as a ruler assessing a subject, but as someone confronting a truth he did not want. I felt exposed under his gaze, yet unable to look away.
"You were not judged when you arrived," he said slowly. "You fell."
"Yes."
"There is no record of such a thing happening."
I swallowed. "I didn't ask for it."
"I know," he said again.
The word carried weight—acknowledgment, not accusation.
Silence grew between us, stretching thin. I became acutely aware of how close he stood, of how my body responded despite my fear. The heat beneath my skin was not pain. It was recognition without memory.
"Does this place… know me?" I asked quietly.
He did not answer immediately.
"This realm remembers souls," he said at last. "Not faces. Not names. Essence."
His eyes met mine fully.
"And yours is not unfamiliar."
The admission struck harder than any threat.
"I've never been here," I whispered.
"No," he agreed. "But something like you has."
A distant sound echoed through the halls—a low horn, warning or summons, I could not tell.
His expression hardened.
"You will remain in the Archive," he said. "Do not wander. Do not touch anything that reacts to you."
"And if it does?" I asked.
He stepped closer, his voice dropping.
"Then I will have to decide whether you are a miracle," he said, "or a catastrophe."
He turned and left without another word.
I stood alone among the shelves, my heart racing, my palm still warm where the stone had answered me.
I did not belong in the convent.
I did not belong in hell.
But the Afterlife had felt me.
And it was beginning to remember.