Radit barely slept that night. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw walls dissolving, the word **WRITE** burning itself into blank surfaces. Tamari lay curled beside him on the cold floor, clutching her red scarf like a lifeline. The Archivist sat hunched over the table, scribbling furiously into an old ledger.
In the dim lamplight, Radit noticed the cracks in the ceiling. They pulsed faintly, glowing with that same soft static he'd seen before. Every so often, he thought he heard whispering in the fissures — as though the city itself was breathing just above their heads.
Suddenly, Tamari stirred. Her eyes flew open, wide with fear. "It's here," she whispered.
Radit grabbed her hand. "What? What's here?"
She pointed at the far wall. Radit turned, and his stomach dropped. A dark figure stood in the doorway — tall, thin, almost human-shaped, but empty. Hollow. Its outline rippled, as if it was made of liquid shadow.
The Archivist jumped up, knocking over the chair. "Don't look at it!" he barked.
Radit tore his gaze away, shielding Tamari with his body. But he could feel the thing's emptiness, a sucking coldness pulling at the edges of the room.
"It comes when we doubt," the Archivist whispered. "When we let the cracks spread. Keep writing — now!"
Radit fumbled for his notebook. Tamari squeezed his arm, voice shaking. "I can't… I don't know what to write…"
"Just describe this room!" Radit shouted. He scribbled frantically: *The room is solid. The walls are strong. There are three of us here. We are alive.*
Beside him, Tamari stammered out words, her hand gripping a pencil so hard it nearly snapped: *We are not alone but we are safe. The room holds. The shadows stay out.*
The hollow figure hissed, its outline flickering. The cracks in the ceiling slowed their crawl. Radit could feel the air solidify, the floor steady beneath him again.
Then the figure retreated, sinking into the darkness beyond the door until there was nothing left but empty space.
Tamari let out a ragged sob. "What… what was that thing?" she whispered.
The Archivist picked up his fallen chair with trembling hands. "A hole," he muttered. "A piece of the blankness that learned how to wear our shape. They're getting smarter. Hungrier."
Radit swallowed, staring at the empty doorway. "What happens if we stop writing?"
The Archivist looked at him, eyes hollow with exhaustion. "Then the city swallows us too," he whispered. "And no one remembers we were ever here."
Silence filled the room. Tamari wiped her eyes, her voice a whisper. "Then we don't stop," she said. "We keep writing. Even if it kills us."
Radit squeezed her hand, feeling the cold sweat on her skin. He opened his notebook to a fresh page.
*We will not disappear,* he wrote. *Not tonight.*