The Cemetery Of Lost Books นิยาย & เรื่องราว

They were librarians of lost souls. “We wandered,” Alaric said, his eyes distant. “We collected stories from the dying. We found fragments in ruins. We memorized names, faces, the sound of a laugh, the way someone held a tool. We kept them alive in here.” He tapped his temple. “But I am the last. My brothers and sisters have all faded into the silence they fought against. And my own memory… it is a library with a collapsing roof.” He looked at Liora, his expression desperate. “I cannot take them with me when I go. The world is healing, but if it forgets the cost, the healing is a lie. You must take them from me. You must remember the lost.”

The shuffle of hangers, the low hum of a dusty radio playing soft rock in the background, the occasional exclamation from a customer who’s found a hidden gem. In the back corner, I discover a wooden crate filled with books. My fingers hover over the spines, titles half faded, pages worn. I crouch down and start flipping through them, the paper whispering under my touch. Valerie appears beside me a moment later with a woven basket in one hand and a sequined scarf slung dramatically around her neck. “Any treasure?” she asks, crouching beside me. “Not sure yet,” I murmur, pulling out a leather bound book with a cracked spine. The title is barely legible. Myths of the Forgotten Realms. My breath

My fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the page. My mother had written a small note in the margin. Someone else is looking. I kept reading. The books that keep disappearing from the shelves are the same ones I have been studying. Ancient burial records. Early magical creature classifications. Northern mountain ruins. My breath slowed. Northern mountains again. That place kept appearing in her notes. Whoever the other researcher is, they are careful. The books are returned quickly. The archive logs show nothing unusual. But the pages themselves tell a different story.

That day, after breakfast, I took the satchel containing the broken urn, and made Cassian take me to the library inside the pack house. It was a huge, quiet room with rows and rows of books. At the very back, there were some old scrolls, and more books that looked like they might be restricted. The librarian was a nice old lady who had kept glancing at me until I found a desk out of sight. I got the urn out of the satchel, found two pieces that looked like they matched, and tried to join the edges together. I'd sort of been expecting that something magical would happen. Maybe the pieces would begin to glue themselves back together or something. No such thing happened.

Before my mother passed away, she often told me, "You must first learn to love yourself before you can love others." Looking back now, she was absolutely right. I had already lost sight of myself, which was why I ended up losing my lover and child as well. After the meal, I heard a buzzing coming from the couch. When I walked over, I realized the buzzing came from Serene's tablet. It had been buzzing nonstop with notifications from her messaging app. In the past, I would never touch any of her devices. According to her, all her messages contained company secrets, since she was in charge of a major company.

Because the Graveyard wasn’t just going to let us linger and admire our handiwork. The moment the librarian lost cohesion, the world remembered it had another job: containment. The small cracks in the ground we’d seen earlier split wider. Whole rows of headstones tilted, then crashed into the paper sea, sending up waves of pages. The ink, which had withdrawn a little under my earlier push, surged back with renewed hunger. It poured out from under toppled coffin‑books, boiling up through the ripped floor of paper in slick geysers. It flowed toward us in advancing fronts, swallowing scattered manuscripts, lapping at the bases of stones, climbing, ready to reclaim everything we’d just wrestled

With some effort, I managed to push it open, revealing an enormous underground chamber. My breath caught in my throat. The chamber was filled with rows upon rows of old books and scrolls—an ancient library dedicated to werewolf lore and magic. The walls were lined with shelves crammed with forgotten knowledge, and in the center of the room stood a large, intricately carved table covered in tomes and manuscripts. I approached the table, my eyes scanning the titles. Many of the books were written in old, nearly forgotten languages, but one tome caught my attention. It was bound in dark leather, the title barely legible: "The Lament of the Moon."

The librarian directed me to a corner of the library that was dark and smelled of wet leather. All of the books and tombs around me looked at least a hundred years old. If not more. “I usually don’t bring students back here,” the librarian stated. “But I’d recently come across a lost tomb and placed it back. I’m sure it will be helpful to you.” “Thank you,” I murmured, eyes still tracking across the thousands of ancient tombs around me. I wonder how many told the story of my mother. Or my grandmother. I’d have to come back for a leisure read. I was on a mission.

Out of nowhere, I say, “I’m curious about…the lost heirs.” “Pff. Probably some dumb kids that got lost in the woods or something,” he says, and adds, “I think all the answers we need to know about our… distant relatives are all in that house. Even though it’s not on display, they have to have a storage unit where they keep all their albums and whatnots.” I nod and turn my eyes back to the manor, a mischievous look infringing on my expression. “Race you back?” I grip the reins readily.