The Well of Stories

…yet to be written.

As the names appeared, the walls began to emit soft, muffled sounds—like distant sobs. As if behind every name, someone was breathing. Some names were incomplete—half-erased, half-formed—as though someone had tried to write them and stopped at the very last moment. The blue light had deepened further, almost turning violet. In it, everyone’s faces looked sickly, as if they hadn’t seen sunlight in months.

The girl in front of whom the microphone had stopped now had empty eyes. Her pupils were dilated. She was telling a story, but there was no emotion in her voice—no fear, no pain. Only facts. Dry, sharp facts.

“They told me not to go near the well,” the voice said, “but I went. And I pushed.”

Someone screamed, “Stop it!”

But no scream came from the microphone—laughter did.

Not the girl’s.

Arya’s.

“No story is stopped here,” the voice echoed. “Here, every truth is told completely.”

Glass began to crack beneath the girl’s feet. First softly… then louder. Cracks spread