The square room was softly lit, a candle lamp glowing in each corner. The dark red carpet beneath her feet met four symmetrical walls lined floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves. Ancient tomes sat in ordered succession, dusty and undisturbed.

 

A forgotten silencium.

​

In the centre of each wall stood an arched entrance, each one leading to a dimly lit arcade that stretched out endlessly into shadow. No direction seemed familiar. Taking a deep breath and clutching the treasured book to her chest, she walked slowly down one of the corridors. The path ran straight without deviation, and the walls on both sides were built of dull grey brick.

​

After some time, another room appeared, centred around a solitary desk. The furniture was a perfect facsimile of the one left behind. Confused and concerned, the visitor sat for a moment to gather her thoughts. Then, she selected a large volume from a shelf and set it in the mouth of an archway—an improvised marker. With a final glance over one shoulder, she stepped into the corridor.

​

Eventually, another identical room emerged. Approaching the desk, the visitor noticed something in the entrance of the corridor beyond, on the opposite wall. A book. The book.

​

Her breath quickened. Grabbing another volume, she placed it in the entrance of a different corridor and set off running. But it, too, led to a dimly lit room with a desk in the centre. She stood there, shaken. Mentally retracing each step, at no point in any corridor had she encountered a junction or fork. That meant every path led impossibly back here.