Chapter 7 — The Hunt for the Page

The cold had hardened during the night. Snow was falling again, but not as a blessing: every flake that touched the ground carried a tiny syllable, visible only in the lamplight. When Naïma knelt to examine one, she heard the snow whisper beneath her fingers.

“Sha… no…”

Junon barked, as if to protect her from the murmur crawling into her ear.

Louvel, eyes wide, stretched his hand toward the ground.
— It’s her. The original page. She scatters her letters in the snow, rewriting the city.

Abel bent closer.
— No… not her. This is her echo. It means she’s near, but not yet in our hands.

Naïma pulled her coat tight.
— So what do we do? Wait for her to come to us?

Abel looked at her for a long time.
— We investigate.

The first step was the town hall. The clock was still ticking backward, like an inverted metronome. Each chime echoed in Naïma’s chest like a warning.

Inside the hall, a disturbing sight awaited: civil registers, birth and death certificates, were rewriting themselves. Names changed language, dates reversed. A baby born in 2005 suddenly appeared as “child of 1205,” then as “son of year zero.”

Naïma slammed the register shut.
— It’s an administrative infection. The language is infiltrating the archives.

Louvel staggered, pale.
— Personal stories… names… they’re open doors. It’s using them to spread.

Abel ran a hand over a register.
— The original page is hidden where stories accumulate. A church, a town hall, a library.

Naïma thought for a moment.
— The municipal library has been closed since the fire last summer. Still full of ashes and ruined manuscripts. Nobody goes there.

The mice nodded. The oldest one, with a gray mustache, spoke:
— Where books sleep, orphaned pages take refuge.

They made their way to the library, through a city growing stranger with every step. In the streets, passersby mumbled incomprehensible phrases. Some traced glowing characters on walls with their fingers, fading instantly. Others, eyes closed, typed invisible messages into the air like secretaries gone mad.

Junon growled at every corner, as if sensing a beast lurking behind each door.

When they reached the library, Naïma’s stomach knotted. The shattered windows seemed to breathe like lungs. The façade was covered in crawling letters, syllables wriggling like glowing insects.

Abel pulled from his suitcase a strange lantern, made of copper and broken mirrors.
— Don’t read anything. Don’t speak anything. Let the light filter for you.

He entered first.

Inside smelled of damp dust and burned paper. The charred shelves cracked underfoot. Yet despite the fire, dozens of books had returned, regenerated by the new tongue. Their pages opened and closed on their own, like hungry mouths.

Louvel, fascinated, reached out, but Naïma stopped him.
— Don’t touch, storyteller. You’d be swallowed in a second.

A rustling sound swept through the reading room. The mice bristled their whiskers. Junon barked, hackles raised.

Then they saw it.

At the center of the hall, on a blackened table, lay a single sheet. White as snow, intact amid the ashes. On it, shifting letters carved four syllables:

RA — SHA — NO — KAL

The original page.

Abel approached cautiously, lantern raised. The letters vibrated, as if recognizing their guardian. He pulled a metal case from his suitcase, opening it like a funeral box.

— Once inside, he said, we can contain it…

But the sheet lifted abruptly, flying through the hall like a furious butterfly. The books all opened at once, flinging their pages like wings. A paper storm rose, lashing their faces.

Naïma threw herself to the ground, shielding Louvel. Junon leapt at the page but was hurled back by an invisible gust.

The syllables thundered in the air, multiplying with frightening speed.

“RA — SHA — NO — KAL!”

Each repetition struck their skulls like a hammer.

Louvel screamed, eyes rolling back.
— She wants me to speak! She commands me to tell her story!

Abel grabbed him roughly.
— Resist, Louvel! If you give in, she breaks free forever!

But Louvel trembled, lips opening against his will.

Panicked, Naïma raised her gun and aimed at the floating sheet. She knew it would be useless… but what else could she do?

Then the mice stepped forward. From their tiny pouches, they pulled fragments of golden cheese — crumbs of the Ultimate Cheese they had saved. They tossed them into the air.

The shards glittered like stars. The page hesitated, wings fluttering slower.

Abel seized the moment and snapped the metal case shut. The page was sucked inside at once.

Silence fell.

They all panted. Junon lay down, exhausted. Louvel sobbed, curled up. The mice held paws, trembling but proud.

Abel slid the case back into the suitcase, his hands shaking for the first time.
— We’ve won a battle. But it won’t endure prison for long.

Naïma wiped the icy sweat from her brow.
— So what do we do now?

Abel shut the suitcase, gray eyes gleaming in the dark.
— We search for the fire that can burn a story. The only fire even words fear.

Louvel lifted his head, ghostly pale.
— And where do we find that?

A hard smile spread across Abel’s lips.
— In the most dangerous place of all. Where tales are born… and where they die.

And in the distance, the town hall clock ticked faster still, each chime resounding like a countdown into the unknown.

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