The old man in the corner of the library had been there for as long as anyone could remember. He never spoke, never moved, and never looked up from the worn leather book he always held open on his lap. The librarians knew him only by name—Mr. Halloway—but no one ever asked where he came from or why he stayed. His presence was a quiet, unspoken rule: the library would never close to him. Every evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the last rays of light filtered through the stained glass windows, he would sit in the same chair, the same position, the same book. Some said he was a ghost, others claimed he was a retired scholar who had lost his mind. But no one dared to ask. One day, a new librarian named Elise arrived, fresh out of college and eager to make an impression. She noticed Mr. Halloway immediately, and though she tried not to stare, her curiosity got the better of her. One night, as she was organizing the shelves, she wandered over to his table. "Good evening," she said, trying to sound friendly. "Is there anything I can help you with?" He didn’t look up. His fingers traced the spine of the book, slow and deliberate, like he was reading it for the first time. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and raspy, as if it hadn't been used in years. "I’m looking for something that isn’t here." Elise frowned. "What are you looking for?" He turned the page slowly, then looked at her for the first time. His eyes were deep-set, shadowed, and seemed to hold more weight than they should. "A story. A real one. Not the kind written down, but the kind that lives in the silence between the words." She laughed nervously. "That’s poetic, but I don’t think that’s how it works." He closed the book gently and set it down. "It does. Every city has its own. They whisper through the streets, through the cracks in the pavement, through the flicker of streetlights. You just have to listen." Elise thought he was eccentric, but something about his words stuck with her. That night, she began to notice things—small, strange things. A door that opened on its own when no one was near. A shadow that moved when no one was there. A faint hum in the air, like a forgotten lullaby. Over the next few weeks, she started collecting stories. Not the ones people told in bars or on the internet, but the ones that felt like they belonged to the city itself. She found them in old newspapers, in the corners of abandoned buildings, in the hushed conversations of elderly residents who had lived through too many winters. One night, she found a map tucked inside a book. It was old, yellowed, and covered in strange symbols. At the center was a place marked only as “The Hollow.” Curious, she followed the directions, which led her to an alleyway behind the library, hidden between two crumbling brick buildings. There was nothing there—just a rusted gate, a broken bench, and a single streetlamp that never went out. She stood there for a long time, listening. And then she heard it—a soft, rhythmic tapping, like someone was knocking on the walls of the world itself. She turned around, expecting to see Mr. Halloway, but he wasn’t there. Instead, the air shimmered, and for a brief moment, she saw a glimpse of something else: a city that didn’t exist, where the buildings were made of glass and the sky was filled with floating lights. When she blinked, it was gone. The alley was empty again, the streetlamp flickering weakly. She ran back to the library, heart pounding, and told no one what she had seen. But the next day, Mr. Halloway was gone. His chair was still there, but the book was missing. The librarians said they hadn’t seen him in days. No one knew where he had gone, but the city had changed. The streets felt different, the air carried a strange scent, and the stories she had collected began to shift, as if they were no longer just stories, but warnings. Elise kept the map. She never went back to the alley, but sometimes, when the wind blew just right, she could hear the tapping again. And she wondered if the stories weren’t just meant to be read, but to be remembered—and if some stories were never meant to be told.