THE ARCHIVIST

We step onto the Earth and the silence hits like a blow,
too deep, too cold,
like the planet has been holding its breath
waiting for us to crawl back into its memory.

Shadows cling to the horizon,
thick, patient, hungry.
The sun cuts through the clouds,
but the dark doesn’t move—
it only shows its teeth.

And the Earth keeps whispering, we remember you.

We push forward.
Land we knew, twisted wrong.
The wind tastes like burnt sugar,
the ground hums a mourning note.
The forests lean toward us,
branches pitched forward,
leaves breathing in,
as if the whole world is inhaling our fear.

Then the tapping starts.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

Slow.
Counting.
Counting us.

And the Earth keeps whispering, we remember you.

The path stretches long and thin,
a throat swallowing us whole.
A stone at our feet shifts its message again:

you are expected.

We don’t speak.
We don’t breathe.
We just move.

Ahead, the ground splits open—
a fissure carved with shifting symbols:
eyes, keys, teeth,
a reaching hand etched by the planet itself.

We descend.

A cavern of drawers waits below,
thousands of them,
each labeled in drifting dust‑script
that knows our secrets.

And in the center stands a figure,
wrapped in ancient cloth,
bent and towering,
pressing on the air like a bruise.

It turns to us.

“The ones who refuse,” it rasps.

It gestures to the drawers.
“Every choice you didn’t make.
Every path you abandoned.
Every truth you buried in me.”

The labels twist:

the apology we never gave.
the night we almost left.
the truth we swallowed.

“Why show us this?” we demand.

The Archivist tilts its head,
rustling like dry leaves.

“Because I remember,” it says.
“And memory hungers.”

And the Earth keeps whispering, we remember you.