The Library Of Unwritten Lives (eBook)

Casey N Toth (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
591 Seiten
Publishdrive (Verlag)
978-0-00-112119-5 (ISBN)

Infos

Every life is written somewhere. In Elin's small village, every day feels preordained, each life bound to a book in a vast library of destinies. Yet Elin senses a quiet wrongness in her own story - a void where purpose should be. When fragments of her reality start to glitch - an echoing greeting in the market, a day that rewinds itself with the sunrise - Elin uncovers an impossible truth: her book in the Library of Unwritten Lives is blank.

Determined to find answers, Elin follows a mysterious summons into the Library's endless halls - a boundless, sentient archive of unwritten stories and unwoven fates. Amid towering shelves of glowing tomes, she encounters those who tend the books and guard the fragile balance between destiny and chaos. As the Library's secrets unfold, Elin realizes her unwritten life is more than an anomaly - it's a threat to the very fabric of reality. To save her world from unraveling, she must claim authorship of her own life, facing the truth of fate versus free will and finding the courage to pen her own ending before both reality and her identity fade into blank pages.

Textauszug

Chapter 1 Ordinary Life Quiet Wrongness

 

The first light slipped through the cracked shutters of the Marris cottage like a hesitant sigh, spilling amber across the worn boards and coaxing El in from the tangled sheets of sleep. She sat up, brushed a stray curl from her forehead, and listened to the village waking in a chorus of familiar sounds: the low clatter of the baker’s cart rolling over cobblestones, the distant toll of the bell that marked the hour, the soft murmur of the river as it brushed against the stone bridge. The world outside seemed already rehearsed, each element poised to perform its part in a script she could not read.

She slipped her feet onto the cold floorboards, the wood creaking under her weight, and stepped onto the narrow lane that wound between the thatched roofs. The cool morning air brushed against the back of her neck, carrying with it the scent of damp earth, fresh rye, and a faint hint of pine from the forest beyond the fields. Harlan the baker, a stout man with flour-dusted hands and a perpetual grin, was already arranging loaves on his wooden shelf, the crusts glistening under the sunrise. He lifted a fresh loaf, placed it on the counter, and without looking up muttered the same greeting he had offered her every market day since she could remember: “Morning, El in. Bread as warm as the sun.” The words fell into the rhythm of his movements, each syllable timed to the exact moment the oven door opened. El in smiled politely, but the smile felt thin, like paper over a wound. She watched his hands, the practiced flick of his wrist, and wondered how many mornings he had performed this same dance without ever questioning its purpose.

She lingered a moment longer, inhaling the yeasty perfume that clung to the air, and felt a pang of envy for the certainty that seemed to anchor his life. Harlan never hesitated; his world was measured in dough, fire, and the steady cadence of sunrise to sunset. El in’s own days, by contrast, drifted like a loose thread, never quite catching on anything solid. She imagined the baker’s life as a loaf—each slice predictable, each crust familiar. The thought made her chest tighten, a reminder that she could not even name the shape of her own routine.

Further down the lane, the schoolhouse loomed, its slate roof a dark blot against the pale sky. Inside, Master Orin stood before a chalkboard, his voice low and steady as he recited the same handful of myths that had been handed down through generations. He spoke of the moon’s silver thread, of the river spirit that guarded the valley, of the ancient pact that bound the town to the land. Each story was told in the same order, each pause measured, each emphasis placed where it had always been placed. Children listened with rapt attention, eyes wide, while the adults outside the windows whispered that the tales kept the world in balance. El in lingered at the doorway, feeling the weight of those words settle on her shoulders, as if the myths were meant to be a map for every life that walked the streets. She pressed her palm to the cool stone, feeling the faint imprint of countless hands that had rested there before her, and a quiet ache rose in her chest—an ache for a map she could not find.

She watched Master Orin’s hand sweep across the board, the chalk dust rising like tiny stars. The teacher’s eyes flickered over the class, lingering a moment longer on the boy who always asked “why?” before moving on. El in imagined herself in that seat, asking questions that might shatter the comforting myths, but the thought made her stomach tighten. She turned away, the stone wall cool against her skin, and walked toward the riverbank where the day’s heat began to gather.

At noon the riverbank filled with the soft shuffle of footsteps. An elderly couple, Mara and Joren, moved together along the water’s edge, their hands clasped as they had been for decades. They walked the same stretch every day, pausing at the same willow tree to watch the water ripple over smooth stones. Their conversation was a low hum, punctuated by occasional laughter that seemed to echo off the water and into the surrounding fields. Children tossed pebbles, and the couple would smile, their eyes meeting in a language older than words. El in watched them from the edge of the path, feeling the world tilt slightly as if she were looking at a painting through a glass that did not quite fit. Their routine was a comfort, a promise that some things never changed. Yet when she thought of her own days, they seemed scattered, each moment slipping through her fingers like water through a sieve.

She lingered a while longer, tracing the pattern of the willow’s drooping branches with her eyes, noting how the leaves caught the light and turned it into a soft green glow. The river’s surface reflected the sky, a mirror that showed everything but never revealed what lay beneath. El in felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to step into the water, to let the current pull her away from the certainty of the couple’s steps. She hesitated, then turned back toward the village, the weight of her own indecision pressing against her ribs.

The market square buzzed with the low hum of barter and banter. Stalls of dried herbs, woven baskets, and bright cloths lined the cobblestones, each vendor shouting the same familiar slogans. “Fresh thyme! Sweet as sunrise!” called one woman, her voice rising and falling in a rhythm that matched the cadence of the day. As El in passed, a group of women gathered near the well, their conversation turning to the old proverb that floated through the town like a whispered prayer: “Every life is written somewhere.” It was a comforting superstition for most, a gentle assurance that each person’s path was already inked in some unseen ledger, that fate was a tapestry woven by hands beyond mortal sight. For El in, however, the words felt like a cage. She imagined a vast library of glowing tomes, each spine bearing a name, each page already filled with deeds, loves, losses. And then she imagined her own name, a blank space where a story should be. The thought settled in her gut like a stone, heavy and cold.

She tried to shake the feeling as she moved through the crowd, but the day offered small reminders of her misalignment. At the apothecary, she was asked to fetch a jar of lavender oil—a simple task she had performed countless times before. The jar slipped from her fingers, shattering on the stone floor, the fragrant oil spilling in a dark stain. The apothecary’s eyes flickered with a mixture of annoyance and pity, a silent question hanging in the air: “Can you manage?” She knelt, her hands trembling as she gathered the shards, feeling the sharp edges bite into her palms. The scent of lavender, usually soothing, now seemed acrid, as if it mocked her clumsiness.

Later, at the forge, a blacksmith named Bram offered her a short apprenticeship, his broad shoulders promising steady work and a place in the town’s rhythm. She accepted, eager for any foothold, but after a week the heat of the furnace and the clang of metal became too much, and she left, the forge’s door closing behind her with a soft thud that sounded like finality. The townsfolk exchanged glances, their smiles tightening, as if they could not quite picture her in any of their familiar roles. Their hesitation was not unkind; it was simply the absence of a script to place her within. She sensed their unspoken question: where would she fit, if at all?

She walked past the well at the edge of the square, where younger folk gathered to splash water and trade jokes. The oak tree that shaded the well had grown thick and gnarled over the years, its branches forming a natural canopy. Beneath it, El in found Lira, her childhood friend, humming a tune as she filled a bucket. Lira’s eyes sparkled with a confidence that seemed to radiate from the very air around her. “El in!” she called, wiping her hands on a linen cloth. “You won’t believe it—Master Orin has offered me an apprenticeship in the archives. I’ll be cataloguing the town’s histories, and—” She paused, a smile widening as she added, “—and my mother says we might be thinking of marriage soon. The Whitmans have asked for a meeting. It all feels so…right.” Lira’s words tumbled out in a cascade of certainty, each sentence landing perfectly on the path she had already walked. El in forced a smile, feeling the edges of her own thoughts fray. Inside, a sharp pang of envy rose, sharp enough to sting. She wanted to be happy for Lira, to celebrate the neatness of her friend’s future, but the contrast illuminated the hollowness of her own days. Where Lira saw a road paved with stone, El in saw only mist, an endless fog that refused to settle.

A sudden wind lifted a stray leaf, sending it spiraling toward the square. It seemed to pause mid-air, caught in a strange stillness, before drifting down and landing at Lira’s feet. Lira bent to pick it up, turning the leaf over as if it held a secret. “Do you ever think,” she said softly, eyes meeting El in’s, “that maybe the stories we’re told are just… stories? That perhaps there’s something more beyond the pages?” The question hung between them, fragile as glass. El in opened her mouth, then closed it, the words caught in a throat that felt both dry and flooded. She could not answer, for the question echoed the very belief that had haunted her all morning: that every life was written somewhere, and yet hers seemed to have never been inscribed.

El in glanced around, noticing the way the market’s colors seemed brighter than usual, as if the world itself were trying to compensate for the emptiness she felt. A child tugged at her sleeve, offering a wilted...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 4.12.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Kinder- / Jugendbuch
• ISBN-10: 0-00-112119-7 / 0001121197
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-112119-5 / 9780001121195