The silver key shimmered faintly between her fingers, hanging from the red string like a final thread linking her to the world she had just left behind.

Oizys slowly rose, still echoing with the voice’s last words. She turned her gaze toward the door that had materialized in the shadows — massive, tall, strangely familiar. An ancient symbol was engraved into it, woven into the stark inscription:

S03 — E26.

Without knowing why, she understood she had to open it. That it was the next step — the inevitable continuation of her path.

She inserted the key.

The lock gave a sharp click, and the door swung open with a long, deep sigh — as if it hadn’t moved in centuries.

A current of air escaped the opening — cold, thick with ink and dust, and an intangible scent: the scent of infinity.

Oizys stepped through.

And at once, the world changed.

Before her stretched an endless library — a cathedral of knowledge rising in every direction, without end.

There were no walls. No up, no down, no horizon.

Only rows upon rows of books, floating in space, connected by shifting walkways suspended in the void like unfinished thoughts.

Each shelf seemed alive. Words flowed along the spines of the books. Some volumes opened on their own, letting their pages dance in an invisible wind. Others whispered, sang, wept.

And everywhere… missing pages.

Oizys walked gently, eyes wide open. Fascinated. Hypnotized.

She reached out to a volume resting on a glass pedestal. Its cover was smooth, black, untitled.

When she opened it, her heart tightened — entire paragraphs were torn, pages ripped out, others blackened and unreadable.

And yet, this book felt familiar. Intimate. Almost personal.

She moved on, discovering more volumes — books about the universe, the laws of time, human nature, the soul, dreams, pain, love.

All incomplete. All mutilated.

“Why...?” she whispered.

And suddenly, the voice returned. Different this time.

Neither kind nor harsh. Neutral, almost academic:

“Some mysteries cannot be solved.

Others should not be.

And some… simply have no end.”

A wave of vertigo washed over her.

At the far end of the vast space, she saw a lone lectern, bathed in a pale shaft of light.

On it lay an open book. Beside it — a handful of torn pages, tied with a black ribbon.

She stepped closer.

She recognized the handwriting. Her own.

And everything came rushing back.

The desk lamp burning for hours.

The stacks of annotated books.

Five browser tabs open with tutorial videos.

The oppressive silence of her room.

And at the center… the sketchbook — blank, terrifying.

She remembered that night. When instead of drawing a single line, she had spent twelve hours searching for the perfect method. Trying to learn everything, understand everything, master it all before creating anything.

But by dawn, nothing had been done.

Nothing — except an overwhelming fatigue. A heaviness that drowned all creative impulse in a sea of doubt.

And that inner voice, sharp and unforgiving:

"You’re not ready. You don’t know enough yet. You’re not allowed to try until you’ve mastered it all."

She realized then — that voice had followed her all her life.

In school.

In relationships.

Even here.

Her hands trembled as she touched the torn pages. She tried to place them back into the book on the lectern. Tried to make them fit. Force them to belong.

But they wouldn’t.

The margins didn’t match.

The words spilled over.

The more she tried, the more the book distorted itself — as if rejecting her effort. Refusing to be whole.

“This is your trial,” the voice whispered.

“To understand that you will never have all the answers.

And that this is not a failure.

It is life.”

She closed her eyes.

She thought of all the times she had waited — for “the right moment,” “the right preparation,” “the right version of herself”…

And all she had lost by waiting too long.

An inner tremor shook her.

Not fear.

Truth.

She let the torn pages fall. They scattered around her in a soft exhale.

She gently closed the book.

Caressed it as one might a wound now closed.

And whispered:

“I will never know everything.

And maybe… that’s for the best.”

At once, a shiver rippled through the library.

The shelves quivered. The books stilled.

Before her, a new key appeared on the lectern — brass this time, worn, etched with strange symbols.

It was tied to a black thread.

And behind it, a hidden door revealed itself — not of wood or metal, but a fracture in space itself.

A tear in a dream stitched too tightly.

Oizys stepped forward.

She no longer sought to understand.

She felt.

And that was enough.

Before crossing, she cast one last glance at the infinite library.

The books were not her enemies.

Nor her masters.

They were only shards. Fragments.

She was no longer here to know everything.

She was here to live.

And she stepped through the door.