BC Library – August 11, 2025 – 11:11 AM
Silence had weight in this place.
Sora stepped into it like a diver breaking the surface, half-expecting the air to press back. No door chime. No fan. Just the slow tick of a ceiling clock that hadn't changed since she arrived.
The BC Library was smaller than she remembered — older too. The kind of place where books outlived staff and light bulbs flickered from memory rather than power.
Not the Greyline one. This branch didn't hum with theories — it creaked with ghosts. The air here wasn't curious; it was cautious. A different kind of silence.
She walked past empty chairs and untouched displays. A poster for "Analog Literacy Month" had peeled from its thumbtack, curling like it was retreating. Dust floated through a single shaft of light from the domed skylight, turning the center of the room into a soft, shimmering pit.
There was only one other person in the building.
At the circulation desk, framed by shadows and forgotten deadlines, sat a woman with steel-grey curls and unreadable posture. Her sweater was buttoned wrong, but deliberately. A nameplate sat crooked on her desk:
Maeve
She looked up before Sora could speak.
Maeve: "You're early."
Sora: "Wasn't aiming to be."
Maeve (smiling faintly): "That's what makes it count."
Sora didn't sit. She hovered, half-balanced between confrontation and curiosity. Maeve radiated the kind of calm that made you feel like the impolite one for asking questions. Her gaze flicked to the right, as if directing Sora somewhere without words.
Sora hesitated, suddenly aware of the faint hum in the room — not electrical, but tonal. A low resonance, barely perceptible, like the silence had a key signature. She reached for her phone instinctively, but the screen refused to turn on, even though she hadn't powered it off. Her reflection in the blank display blinked a beat too late.
The music theory section hadn't moved since high school.
She walked there slowly, trailing a finger along the spines. Most of the books were unremarkable, aged, with faded barcodes and bent corners. But one stood out — not by cover, but by temperature. It felt cold.
"The Quiet Between Keys: Silence in Modern Composition."
Inside, three pages deep, a note waited.
Handwritten in blue ink, unmistakably Leo's:
Don't trust her.
Static is choice.
If you hear her voice — mute yourself.
Sora's throat dried. The handwriting wasn't shaky. It was recent.
Sora (under her breath): "Leo, what did you know...?"
Behind her, something clicked.
She turned fast.
Maeve was gone.
The desk empty. The chair spinning slightly like someone had just stood. The library was still sealed — she hadn't heard the door.
She moved deeper, toward the map wall. Her steps made no sound now. Even the tick of the ceiling clock had vanished. The air thickened — not warm, just increased. Like walking through unmixed audio.
Every book she passed now felt like it knew her. Titles she'd forgotten she'd read blinked out at her like old contacts left unarchived. She paused at one spine: "How to Exit a Loop." No author. No barcode. She opened it — blank. Every page. Except the last. A mirror square. Her own face stared back, but her lips were moving slightly — like she was speaking just one frame ahead.
YOU ARE READING
Static Hours
Mystery / ThrillerEvery night at exactly 1:13 AM, time stops in Greyline. No sound. No movement. No escape. For Sora Lin - a deadbeat musician with a dead brother and a notebook full of unreleased songs - the Static Hour is a gift. A space to breathe. To record. To c...
