The rain had eased by the time I stepped out of St. Hubert’s Infirmary, but the streets still glistened with the remnants of an evening storm. The gas lamps lining the sidewalk cast long, golden streaks on the wet cobblestones, making everything look like it was caught between dreaming and waking.


    I pulled my coat tighter around me, trying to shut out the chill that didn’t come from the air. Some called my job a sacred duty—Others thought it macabre, disturbing even. But what they couldn’t understand was just how ordinary it felt.


    To me, it was just another night on the job, ferrying the lost words of the dead to a place where they could find solace. The Library of the Departed was on the outskirts of town, in an old part of the city that still held on to its Victorian charms with an almost desperate grip.


    A tram rattled past, its metal wheels screeching against the rails as it disappeared down the avenue. I preferred walking when I could. It gave me time to think, to breathe, to put a little space between myself and the weight of the work I did.


    I passed under the flickering gas lamps, the scent of rain mixing with the ever-present tang of coal smoke from the factories lining the river. The streets weren’t empty, even at this hour. A group of night workers shuffled past, their boots slapping against wet pavement, heading to or from some late-night shift. They didn’t look at me, but they knew who I was—or rather, what.


    A street vendor was packing up his cart, tucking unsold newspapers into a satchel. He caught sight of me, hesitated, then gave a wary nod before turning away. It was always like that. Recognition without invitation. An acknowledgment without connection.


    At least it wasn’t outright disdain.


    Undertakers weren’t unwelcome, but we weren’t embraced either. We carried death, even when we weren’t the cause of it. The living preferred to keep their distance, and I preferred it that way. Distance made it easier to forget that they, too, would someday become ink and parchment, just like all those I’d gathered before.


    I turned a corner, heading off the main street and onto a narrower lane flanked by old brick buildings. It was quieter here, the only sounds being the occasional bark of a distant dog or the rumble of the last tram heading home for the night.


    The Library loomed ahead, its wrought-iron gates casting long, spindly shadows in the lamplight. I stopped for a moment, staring up at the building. It was an imposing structure, all dark stone and narrow windows, like someone had taken a cathedral and stripped away all its religious trappings to leave something colder and more pragmatic. A monument to the collected memories of an entire city.


    The gates opened silently as I approached. No one manned them—a peculiar magic kept the Library’s doors closed to the unwelcome, and the curious seldom found their way here. Only those who carried the dead, or sought them, were ever allowed to pass.


    The massive, oiled oak doors opened under my touch, revealing a cavernous space lit by a thousand flickering lamps. The scent of old parchment and candle wax enveloped me, a scent as familiar as the back of my hand. My boots echoed on the tiled floor, announcing my presence.


    A few figures moved between the shelves, initiates in dark robes gliding silently, their hands trailing over the spines of books as if in quiet communion with the dead. At the far end of the hall, a grand desk stood beneath the watchful gaze of a massive clock, its ticking the only sound aside from the distant shuffle of paper and the occasional rustling whisper of a restless book.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    “Evening, Crowe,” a familiar voice greeted me as I approached the desk. Edwin Hargrave, one of the senior archivists, peered up from a ledger, adjusting the wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose. His ink-stained fingers tapped idly against the polished wood. “Another one for the shelves?”


    I set the case down gently, unfastening the clasps. “Margaret Lorne,” I confirmed. “Natural death. The process was clean.”


    Hargrave gave a solemn nod. “They’re always better that way.”


    It was true. In Transcription, the process often mirrored the manner of passing. Violent deaths sometimes lead to shattered bindings, illegible scripts, and pages torn from spines. Unnatural passings often led to their own horrors. But the old, the ones who passed quietly, were almost serene in their transformation.


    Hargrave slipped on a pair of white gloves and reached for the book, lifting it with the reverence of a father cradling his newborn child. He brushed a gentle thumb over the cover, tracing the embossed fleur-de-lis pattern, and then flipped it open to the first page.


    “The Quiet Archivist,” he read aloud, nodding. “A fitting title.”


    “I thought so, too.”


    Hargrave turned a few more pages, the sound of the paper scratching against his gloves oddly comforting in its familiarity. “You ever wonder how much control they have? Over their titles, I mean.”


    I shrugged. It was an old question, one that had plagued the minds of the Undertakers for as long as the Library had stood. “Not my concern.”


    Hargrave chuckled, shaking his head. “Of course not. You’re just here to collect and deliver. Still, it makes you wonder. Titles don’t lie, Crowe. Sometimes they tell us more than the dead ever did in life.”


    I glanced down at the book in Hargrave’s hands, the rich burgundy of the cover catching the glow of the lamps overhead. “Maybe we aren’t meant to understand it,” I offered. “Maybe it’s enough to just do the work.”


    Hargrave sighed, closing the book gently. “You’re probably right. But one can’t help but be curious. It’s only human.”


    I said nothing. Instead, I watched as Hargrave carried the book to a rolling cart, where several other recent collections waited to be sorted. A low hum filled the air as he placed it among them, the kind of sound that only existed in places filled with too much memory, too much history. Too much life, condensed and distilled into ink and parchment.


    “You look like you could use a drink,” Hargrave said, glancing at me. “The rain getting to you? Or just the job?”


    “Neither,” I said. “Just another night.”


    He hummed in vague amusement, but didn’t press. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”


    I gave a short nod before turning toward the winding staircase that led deeper into the Library. The work never truly ended. There was always another book to collect, another story to shelve. But for now, at least, my work was done. It was up to the archivists to decide where the old woman would rest.


    The stairwell spiraled down into the depths of the Library, the air growing cooler with each step. A few other Undertakers passed me, their faces familiar but their names long since forgotten. We exchanged nods, and nothing more. Solitude was part of the job. Maybe it was an occupational hazard, or maybe it was just the natural outcome of spending so much time around the dead.


    Either way, silence was a comfort, and the Library offered an abundance of it.


    Small brass plaques adorned each landing, marking the levels by category—Historical Accounts, Personal Legacies, Cultural Anthologies, Unfinished Manuscripts, and so on. I paused for a moment outside the latter section, glancing at the iron-bound doors that sealed it shut. Books that had been interrupted before their time, lives cut short, their endings forever uncertain.


    Margaret Lorne’s book had been complete. A quiet, orderly ending. But not all stories ended that way.


    At the very bottom of the stairs, the final landing opened onto a long hallway, its walls lined with small, unmarked wooden doors. One of those doors bore my name, etched in simple lettering above a worn, brass handle.


    It wasn’t much—a small, windowless room lit by a single lamp, with a narrow bed and a battered old writing desk. But it was home, or as close to it as I’d ever find. I had an apartment in the city, but it had been months since I’d used it.


    There was too much work to be done.