The old man in the library had a name that no one could remember. He was always there, hunched over a desk piled with yellowed books and half-empty cups of tea. His face was like parchment, creased and worn, and his eyes—those were the worst. They never seemed to focus on anything, as if he were looking through the room rather than at it. People called him Mr. Vane, though no one knew if that was his real name. He spoke rarely, and when he did, his voice was like the creak of a rusted gate. The librarian, a woman named Mira, had once asked him what he was doing. He only smiled, revealing teeth that were too white and too straight, and said, “Looking for something that’s not supposed to be found.” No one really knew how long he had been there. Some said he had been a patron since the library was built, back when the city was still young and the streets were paved with cobblestones. Others claimed he had arrived just last week, appearing from nowhere in the middle of a rainstorm. But the thing that made people uneasy was that whenever they left the library, they would find their shoes wet, even if the floor was dry. And sometimes, when they looked down, they would see faint footprints leading away from the building, disappearing into the fog. One evening, a new student named Eli entered the library, drawn by the quiet and the smell of old paper. He was studying history, fascinated by the hidden corners of the past. He noticed Mr. Vane immediately, but the old man didn’t seem to notice him. Instead, he was staring at a book on the shelf, its spine cracked and its title faded. Eli approached cautiously. “Do you need help finding something?” he asked. Mr. Vane turned slowly, his head tilting as if listening to something far away. “Not everything is meant to be found,” he whispered. “Some things are meant to be forgotten.” Eli frowned. “What do you mean?” The old man stood up, his movements slow and deliberate. He reached for the book, and as his fingers brushed the cover, a chill ran through the air. The temperature dropped instantly, and the lights flickered. Eli stepped back, heart pounding. “I’ve seen this before,” Mr. Vane said, his voice barely above a breath. “They come for the ones who ask questions.” Before Eli could respond, the door slammed shut. The sound echoed through the empty halls. He turned around, but Mr. Vane was gone. The book on the shelf was now open, its pages filled with symbols he couldn’t read. A single line was written in the margin: *“The Circle remembers.”* That night, Eli couldn’t sleep. He kept thinking about the old man, the book, the strange words. He began researching the library’s history, digging through archives and old records. What he found was unsettling. The library had been built on the site of an ancient ruin, long buried beneath the city. There were rumors of secret gatherings, of rituals performed under the cover of darkness. No one knew who had been involved, only that the events had stopped abruptly decades ago. One day, Eli returned to the library, determined to find more answers. But Mr. Vane was gone. The desk was empty, the books untouched. The only thing that remained was the same book, now closed, its pages blank. As he reached for it, a cold wind swept through the room, and the words *“The Circle remembers”* appeared on the cover, glowing faintly in the dim light. He ran out, heart racing, but as he stepped outside, he saw a group of people standing silently near the entrance. They wore dark cloaks, their faces obscured. One of them turned, and for a brief moment, Eli saw his own face staring back at him. He didn’t know if he had imagined it, but the next morning, the library was closed. No one knew why, and the staff refused to speak about it. The old man was never seen again, and the book disappeared without a trace. But sometimes, when the wind blew just right, and the fog rolled in, people swore they could hear a whisper in the silence, saying: *“The Circle remembers.”*